


The Bastard Truth - Part Five

by nairmakgren



Series: The Bastard Truth [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ancient Technology, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Cunnilingus, Dragon Riders, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Outdoor Sex, Post-War, Rebuilding, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 41,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairmakgren/pseuds/nairmakgren
Summary: With the Others defeated, Westeros deals with a newly risen threat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AND OFF WE GO!

It had been one of the first things he had done when the army returned to Winterfell. Before any thoughts of rebuilding or council meetings with the lords or his Hand or distributing grain to the peasants to get them through the relatively mild winter – mild now that the Others had been vanquished – Jon had gone right to the blacksmith and had the crown forged.

Not for himself. He cared little for riches or jewels. Part of him still didn't want to hold the title of King in the North – but he knew that it was his, and the people of every House and village and town and city were counting on him.

But that didn't mean Sansa couldn't have a crown. She was the Queen of Winter just as much as he was King. The finished product was a true gem fit for his wife, his queen, the mother of his child.

The crown itself was gold, ringed with silver inlays. Starting from the edges and moving inward were nine points of bronze, each one finished top and bottom with fine sapphires. In the centre of the crown sat the direwolf of Stark – its eyes glowing white with diamond finishes.

As Jon inspected the crown he smiled approvingly to the maker. The blacksmith, a greybeard named Haedan had served the Starks for decades. Jon remembered him working alongside Mikken at the forge for a time – Haedan had gone to the winter town just before the Greyjoy sack.

He had happily returned to Winterfell to take up his trade after Jon and Sansa returned home. “I never had a doubt that a Stark would sit in the halls o'this castle again, my lord.” he smiled, his brown and aged eyes twinkling.

“I'm not really a Stark, Haedan -” Jon started but was silenced with a scoff.

“Nonsense! I remember when you were a boy, playing with Robb and the others. To me, you're a Stark through and through. None of that talk now, Your Grace. I know Robb and Lord Eddard would be proud of you.” he smiled, patting Jon's shoulder in an affectionate manner.

News had quickly spread of his parentage and marriage to Sansa. They had married in a more public ceremony at Winterfell's godswood just a fortnight after their triumphant return. Of course Jon had also announced that she was carrying their child not long after.

He laughed at the reactions; ranging from joy from Bran to sheer mock-horror from Arya.

_I wonder what you would think, Robb._ “I miss them, Haedan. All of them.”

The man frowned, nodding. “Aye, as do I, Your Grace. But as I said – you do Lord Eddard proud. I'm sure he rests easy with the gods thanks to your reign.” As the smith placed the crown carefully in its sealed box Jon smiled softly and gently grasped it.

“Thank you Haedan. I'll have Ser Davos arrange your payment.” he stated, turning to leave.

“Your Grace!” the smith protested lightly. “I cannot in good faith accept payment from the King. Consider it a wedding gift for the Queen!”

“Then don't think of it as payment. Think of it as a wedding gift from the King to a loyal subject.” Jon smirked as he strolled out into the courtyard, the sounds of bellows and rush of heat leaving his ears.

* * *

 

Life had gradually returned to normal in the month since their return. Most of the Free Folk had departed for the Last Hearth – where Lord Harmond had eagerly welcomed them to settle and build lands. All save Tormund – who insisted on remaining behind as the official representative for his people on Jon's council.

The damage done by the Greyjoys was finally repaired, with the castle glittering like new – as new as an ancient, eight thousand year old castle could. The sounds of happy children; those of the servants or guards, playing in either the main yard or the fields could be heard. It did his heart good to recognize the sounds of life taking hold once more.

_It's been too long._

Of course there were still many pressing matters he had to attend with. The Queen for one; Daenerys had taken King's Landing – as he knew she would – and now reigned as Daenerys, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Rhaegal would need to be returned to her – and Jon had every intention of doing so.

The beast was out hunting in the wolfswood as it was wont to, but Jon knew that he couldn't stay in the North. The smallfolk were already terrified of it and many lords had complained about a deadly beast such as it roaming freely through their lands.

Euron Greyjoy was also a concern; the pirate lord had taken the city of Oldtown and by all accounts had begun a buildup there, turning the city into his own private fiefdom. Rumour had it that Greyjoy ships were spotted near White Harbor – if the ironborn decided to launch another attack now it would be costly for everyone.

“Your Grace!” came a voice from the far end of the yard as Edmure Tully jogged up. Sansa's uncle – the late Catelyn Stark's brother – had been a guest of theirs for some time since Jaime Lannister had released him to their custody. He was always polite and courteous to Jon, and had expressed his regrets for believing the malingering that Catelyn had spoken of.

“Hello, Edmure. What can I help you with?” Jon smiled, patting the man's shoulder.

“I was just wondering if there was any word from Roslin.” he said, biting his lip nervously. Roslin Frey was his wife – and had gone to Deepwood Motte with their son Hoster the Second on the invitation from Lady Glover. “I don't mean to worry, but...”

“I understand, Edmure. If you must know, yes. Roslin is fine – and little Hoster is enjoying his visit with the Glover children.” Maester Wolkan had informed him of the letter's contents after it had arrived – Jon had ordered the man to give it to Edmure the first chance he got.

That brought a smile to his face. “Oh. Well, um good. I would have gone with them, but...it's still difficult for me. To travel, that is.” Edmure had been a hostage of the Freys for several years after the massacre of Robb and his mother during the infamous Red Wedding – and as a result he was very reluctant to venture outside of Stark-held territory, even to friendly bannermen.

“Listen, I have to get this inside to Sansa before the council convenes. Will you take lunch with us later?” Jon asked as he began to walk inside the castle. He heard Edmure's agreement as he swung open the great doors leading inside, the guards saluting him as he did so.

The castle was abuzz with servants, soldiers and various other officials rushing about and attending to business. They all bowed or saluted as he passed by; something Jon still could not get used to.

_Just a few short years ago_ , he mused, _I was the bastard, good only to be sneered at. Now I am the King._

* * *

The doors to the Great Hall were opened for him by the guards as he trudged in. There, in all of her glory sat his wife and Queen, Sansa Stark.

She sat on her throne – Jon having installed a Queen's Chair at the head of the tables next to his own – with a smile playing on her face. Her red hair flowed down past her shoulders and drifted gently in the morning breeze. Her stomach was slightly larger then it had been at the Last Hearth – just another reminder of his future son or daughter.

“There you are,” she said, waving him over. “Bran and Arya were wondering where you'd run off to.”

Bran and Arya Stark both sat on Sansa's side of the table; they looked as if they were in the middle of telling a story with the laughter on their faces.

“Just in time, Jon! We were talking about the time Robb put flour in your smallclothes.” Arya snickered, causing Bran and Sansa both to laugh along with her.

Rolling his eyes Jon sat down, leaning over to kiss Sansa's cheek gently as he set the box down. “How could I forget? I felt like I was breaking out in hives or something stupid like that!”

* * *

 

“What's in the box, Jon?” Bran asked, tapping his hands curiously on the table.

“I promised my Queen a crown. I had to deliver on it, didn't I?” he smirked, which caused Arya to scoff and roll her eyes.

“Ugh, more romantic shit.” she grumbled, causing Sansa to gasp in shock.

“ARYA! Be nice!”

Laughing Jon opened the box and slid it to sit in front of Sansa. She let out a gasp, covering her mouth as she flushed red, tears twinkling in her eyes. “For you, my Queen. Only the best.” he whispered.

“Jon...” she gaped as he slid the crown out of the box and placed it atop her head. “You..you didn't have to do this...”

“No, but I wanted to.” he laughed as she grabbed his tunic and kissed him, pressing herself up against his body as she poured herself into attacking his lips.

“Unless you two want an audience..” Bran cut in, covering his eyes while laughing.

“Are you done yet?” Arya complained, also covering her eyes while scowling. “Unless you two plan to start fucking on the table that is -”

Jon gasped, pulling away from the kiss before he suffocated as he howled with laughter, pounding his hand on the table. Sansa did not find it nearly as funny, however.

“Arya Stark!” she chided, still blushing furiously. “Need I scold you like Mother used to?”

“Gods, no.” she snorted, slumping in the chair with a wistful sigh.

Raising his hands, Jon cleared his throat. “Alright, alright. We have to get ready – the council is going to be in session soon. You two are welcome to join us..?”

“Thanks, but Bran and I are going to go do something more fun.” Arya rose from her seat and helped Bran onto his sled. “Ghost is out in the courtyard chasing some of the kids around. Think we'll go join him!” she snickered, pulling Bran towards the door.

“Be careful with Ghost or else!” Jon shouted, rolling his eyes as they left. As the pair left Davos and his wife came strolling into the room. Marya Seaworth had made it to Winterfell just a week ago – and she and the Onion Knight had been spending every waking moment together.

* * *

“Lord and Lady Seaworth!” Sansa beamed, gesturing them over. “You're just in time to start.”

“Thank you, My Lady.” Marya dropped to curtsy, sitting down next to Davos as he took his place at Jon's side. “I told Davos that this was an important meeting and I shouldn't really intrude -”

“Oh, nonsense.” Jon waved a hand, smiling to her.

Davos leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I hadn't seen Marya in years, Your Grace. I hope you can forgive this breach of protocol just this once.”

“Davos, there's nothing to forgive.” Jon reassured him, shaking his head. “After what we've been through, do you honestly think I'm going to be worried about you bringing your wife to this meeting? Please.”

“Let's see who's next to arrive.” Sansa said, folding her hands on the table.

“Oh, My Lady – is that a new crown?” Marya tilted her head curiously.

Jon told them the story of getting it forged – the first thing he'd ordered upon their return. “I needed to give our Queen something worth while, after all.”

A loud belch interrupted their silence as Tormund strolled into the room, still clad in his favourite pair of furs. “Morning!” he beamed, crashing down into a chair on Sansa's side of the table. “Did I miss anything good?”

“Oh, not at all.” Davos answered, chuckling to himself.

“That yer wife, Onion Knight?” he grinned. “Th' names -”

“Tormund Giantsbane,” Marya said, nudging her husband softly. “Davos told me all about you an' your...well, unique manners.”

“Hah!” he bellowed, smacking his hand on the table. “Then we'll get along just fine I think.”

* * *

After Tormund's arrival the last few members of Jon's council – the lords Hornwood and Mazin, followed closely by Maester Wolkan – filed in and took their seats. As they did so Jon rose to his feet and nodded to them.

“My lords. Thank you for coming in a timely manner. As King in the North I declare this council open.” he stated, returning to his seat.

“Who wishes to open the floor?” Sansa spoke next, putting on her best smile to each of the assembled. It was Maester Wolkan who raised a hand and cleared his throat, smiling towards them.

“If I may be the first, Your Graces. As I had mentioned to both of you in passing – the issue of the Targaryen dragon is still one of paramount importance.” he announced, idly shuffling through the several papers he'd brought with him.

“He's right, Your Grace.” Lord Mazin sighed, tapping his fingers slightly against his leg. “I myself have no issue with it but – some of the other lords don't like when it flies over their land, or comes too close to their holdings.”

“Aye, I understand their fears.” Jon replied calmly. “Which is why I mean to bring the beast back South at the earliest opportunity. Daenerys Targaryen's dragon has no real permanent place in the North – and we all know it.”

“Then it is settled,” Sansa nodded towards the maester. “as we do not wish for any hostilities with House Targaryen – especially given our need to rebuild urgently – the King's decision is one I fully support.”

Jon had made sure Sansa was given an equal say on all matters of ruler-ship – he would not simply have a figurehead wife.

_Sansa is the Stark here, not me._

“Very good.” Jon gently grasped Sansa's hand under the table; she responded by squeezing tightly. “Next?”

* * *

The council went through several various issues – mostly relating to property disputes and other methods of rebuilding the North. Some lords did not wish to contribute more to the harvest needed to feed the entirety of the region, so the King and Queen made an edict that any lord found hoarding grain would face the potential loss of his or her holdings.

Tormund also spoke about the Free Folk; their settlements within the Gift were coming along nicely, but there were still issues about the remains of the Wall to deal with. “It's a great big fucking eyesore with all that never-melting magic ice everywhere.”

“Then – I believe as your people are fond of saying, Tormund – 'deal with it'.” Sansa grinned at him, causing the room to erupt in laughter.

“Hah! I just wanted to make sure we wouldn't get killed if we did deal with it. Must say Jon, you're really rubbing off on the ol' wife there..” he winked, causing Jon to roll his eyes and Sansa to laugh.

“There is one more thing, Your Grace.” Maester Wolkan announced once more, as the meeting neared its end. “A raven from King's Landing for you arrived not long ago. I was going to wait until the meeting was adjourned, but given the circumstances -”

“No, that's quite alright Maester.” Jon nodded and opened the letter, which was stamped with the three-headed Targaryen dragon.

 

> _King Jon:_
> 
> _I send you my fondest greetings. I am to understand that you were victorious in your war against the Others – and all without needing my help once more. For that, I am most thankful – whilst I enjoyed my time in the frozen waste of the North it is not...the most friendly of climates to a dragon-blooded individual such as I._
> 
> _You will be happy to know that things in King's Landing have been proceeding rather nicely. We are working hard on rebuilding what was damaged or destroyed by Cersei and her reign – and my small council is debating the merits of holding a trial for the former Queen and condemning her before the people itself._
> 
> _You will also be happy to know that your friend Samwell Tarly sends his warmest greetings. He and Ser Jorah – one of my most trusted advisers – escaped from Oldtown before Euron Greyjoy was able to conquer it. He has been in Dragonstone for some time but has now come to the capital to serve as my unofficial healer and confidant. He and his wife – Gilly, I believe – and little Sam are settling nicely._
> 
> _You will also be interested to know that I have the Kingslayer himself in my custody. It seems that Ser Jaime was tired of serving his insane sister and surrendered to Dragonstone while we were besieging the capital. I have him awaiting his own fate now – although Tyrion is urging me to show mercy._
> 
> _I would very much look forward to seeing you again. We still have much to discuss, you and I – regarding the fate of the North now that Westeros is coming under my control. You will find that I am much more...agreeable to alternative arrangements then before._
> 
> _Kind regards,_
> 
> _Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

* * *

 

Jon read the letter aloud for the council, leading to some excited murmuring.

“Perhaps she's open to negotiations after all, now.” Davos added, nodding to the parchment. “Given what she says about wanting to meet with you.”

Sansa chewed her lip idly. “It seems that way. Jon, what do you think?”

“I'm not sure. We just got everything settled – and now she wants me back South to King's Landing.” Jon sighed, rubbing his hand against his head. “Though I could take Rhaegal back with me in the process. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“Why not?” Tormund grinned, munching on a leg of lamb he had stored in some unknown space on his body. “Dragon rides are FUN! I'd keep the fucking thing if it was me, but you kneelers gotta give it back, I suppose.”

“Where did you get that lamb?” Lord Hornwood asked, slightly irritated.

“Kitchen.” Tormund shrugged, stuffing it back in his coat.

Jon squeezed Sansa's hand even tighter. He desperately wanted to remain in the North – to stay with Sansa and their future child. Not return to the south and bargain with more nobles – even if those nobles now called Daenerys their Queen.

_No rest for the weary._

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys adjusts to life on the Iron Throne.

 

The chambers he had been given – well, placed in – were comfortable; far more so then the ones back on Dragonstone. A spacious living area well-furnished with books and other sources of entertainment – he thought he spied a set of cyvasse – kept Jaime Lannister entertained as he awaited his fate. Of course, as the Kingslayer he already knew what his fate would be. He'd known it since he surrendered to Varys with Bronn.

Dressed in a loose fitting tunic and pants having discarded his Lannister armor Jaime passed the time by reading on the balcony of his room, looking out over the Blackwater itself. Life had quickly returned to King's Landing after Daenerys had taken the city as the people of Westeros breathed a sigh of relief that Cersei had been deposed.

He could sometimes hear her; ranting and raving from across the hall. Apparently she hadn't been executed yet – he assumed she would be given a trial as Tyrion was – but he was surprised they hadn't thrown her in the black cells and left her there. _Seems they are taking the high ground, sweet sister._

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Turning from the balcony Jaime sauntered over to a chair and took a seat, the plush cushions relaxing his already tense body.

Daenerys Targaryen looked regal in her new Queenly attire; she wore a long shirt of padded leather, adorned with the three headed dragon of her House over the heart. The skirt she'd chosen was of the same make and colour, flowing gently down to her ankles where a set of boots completed the outfit.

 _A practical ruler._ “Your Grace,” Jaime rose to his feet and offered a bow. “Care to join me?”

She strolled ever so carefully over to him, sitting down in the chair opposite his. “Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer himself.” she mused, steeping her fingers together.

“Your father used to do that when he was in one of his...erm, moods.” he nodded. “The fingers bit that is.” Aerys Targaryen had done a great deal of things – things that Jaime wasn't sure she would want to hear.

“I know. Tyrion has told me in great detail of my father's madness. I am not as blind as you may think, Ser.” she replied, fiddling with the gold chain on her tunic. “I trust your chambers are to your liking?”

Jaime snorted. “Oh yes, very much so. It's a perfect view of the water while I await my execution.”

She sighed, sinking into the chair slightly. “If you had to decide how would you want to die? I am curious.” Her face looked almost...conflicted. _Had dear Tyrion begged her for mercy on my behalf? How sweet of him._

“Something quick. Beheading. Hanging, even. I've seen the slow ways to die – ways your father loved. As long as you don't start burning people alive with wildfire, you're already a better ruler then him.” he shrugged.

“I do not intend to repeat the mistakes of my father.” she said, face hardening with resolve. “Or of your sister.”

“I can hear Cersei ranting and raving to herself at times. It's amazing to me that you've kept her alive this long – if I were you I'd have lopped her head off as the first order of business of my reign.” he laughed, unscrewing his golden hand and placing it on the table before them.

“In due time. She will be tried before the Iron Throne, rest assured.” she nodded. “As for you...”

“As for me, I already know my fate, Your Grace.” Jaime rose to his feet and went to the window to his left, taking in the colors of the godswood – which his room overlooked – with a wistful sigh. “After Cersei loses her head you will put me on trial for breaking my vows as a Kingsguard, for fucking my sister, and all of the other things I have done in my life. Then – I'll lose my head as well, hopefully.”

“You wish to die?” Daenerys asked, looking towards him with a puzzled expression.

“Of course not,” he answered, smiling sadly towards the queen, “but after everything I have done in my life it is inevitable. I have no regrets about anything; not even about killing Aerys. If you knew him like I did -”

“..I would have done the same.” she finished for him, rising to her feet. “Tyrion has asked me to spare your life. Pleaded with me, even. Despite everything that happened between you, he and your sister he has begged for _both_ of your lives. You seem a conflicted yet honest sort. But Cersei?”

“She's mad. Whatever good that existed in her died a long time ago.” he sighed, returning to his seat.

As she moved for the exit Daenerys turned back around to face him. “I will let you know of my decision within a few days time. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

“You've the Iron Throne now, Your Grace. I wish you luck in keeping it.” he nodded, returning to his book.

Danerys strolled down the hall, her Dothraki guards in tow as she headed back towards the Throne Room. Her meeting with Jaime Lannister had gone surprisingly well; the man was not at all like what she imagined. She almost felt a sense of pity for him; he clearly seemed a broken sort of figure. _Someone who's lost everything and cares for nothing._

All around her servants and guards bowed or knelt in respect as she passed by. Life had returned to the Red Keep almost seamlessly with her inauguration as Queen; it was as though the castle had not played host to an insane monarch who had driven away or killed all those once closest to her. As for Cersei – she knew that a visit to her would be inevitable, given her history. Jaime had been brutally honest about who the woman was now; _whatever good that existed in her died a long time ago._

* * *

As she entered the Throne Room she found Tyrion already administering to some petitioners as he sat uncomfortably on the Iron Throne, propped up by a pair of cushions. It was tradition for the Hand to sit the Throne when a monarch was indisposed and issue rulings in his or her place – and Daenerys felt a certain sense of amusement watching those who had come to beg her audience gawk at the sight of a dwarf on the throne instead.

Tyrion had been her rock through all of this. He knew the realm, had governed – if briefly as Hand before – and despite how he was viewed as little more then an abomination by the rest of the Seven Kingdoms dispensed equal justice for all who sought his counsel.

“..you have your ruling. Now, rise for our Queen!” he announced, easing himself down from the chair and going to one knee. Those who had been petitioning – two large and swarthy men – went down on their knee as well.

“Rise.” she commanded, stepping up to the Throne. She gently picked up Tyrion's cushions and handed them to him with a smile. “Your cushions, my lord Hand.”

He smirked. “Thank you, Your Grace.” he rose to his feet and took the fabric in hand, sitting down on the steps nearest the Throne.

As the last petitioners filed out of the chamber she turned her head to Tyrion once more. “Anything I should know about?”

He shrugged, holding the cushions to his chest. “A bit of this and a bit of that. Nothing really of substance. Petty nonsense more suited for a Hand then a Queen's attention. This man stole my sheep, this woman slept with my husband, and on and on it goes.”

“What about our friend Gendry? Any news on his progress?” The newest Baratheon lord was being tutored by Sam Tarly in the art of reading and histories; already news of his ascension had reached the Stormlands with several houses already sending envoys to declare for him.

“He is doing very well, Ser Tarly assures me. A bit overwhelmed and frightened by his new station but he has the markings of a good ruler once the edges are smoothed out.” Tyrion nodded his approval.

“You look radiant on that throne, Khaleesi.” came a gruff voice from the entrance of the room.

* * *

Daenerys beamed, her heart skipping a beat as Jorah Mormont entered, smiling reverently towards her. The Lord of Bear Island was garbed in a grey tunic and pants – much as she was – but with the bear of House Mormont emblazoned on its chest.

His right hand – having been infected with greyscale the last time she had seen him – was burned away, the stump having been replaced with a bronze prosthetic similar to that of Jaime's, only taking up the arm to the elbow instead of just the hand.

“Ser Jorah here has made an excellent recovery. The smiths have gifted him a hand worthy of any true noble.” Tyrion nodded, offering a bow to the man.

She rose from the Throne and gently stepped down to meet him, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle hug. “I've missed you.” she whispered into his ear. Jorah had been there when she was nothing more then a Khal's wife – and despite his banishment had returned to her bringing Tyrion Lannister in tow – and she owed him almost everything.

“And I you, Khaleesi.” he replied, bowing his head. He waved his arm clumsily about. “Though I am still getting used to this damned thing. Well, it was either this or death and I really didn't want to become a Stone Man.”

“I forbid that, Ser.” she grinned, gesturing him to the steps as he lowered himself down beside Tyrion.

“Good to see you, Lannister.” he nodded respectfully.

“And you, Mormont.” Tyrion smiled, patting his bronze arm softly.

Daenerys remained in her previous place at the foot of the Throne, turning to face Jorah and Tyrion. “Ser Jorah. I would name you Master of Laws of my small council.” she announced abruptly. She had yet to assemble a true council – save for Varys as Master of Whisperers and Tyrion as her Hand she had precious little else to offer in the way of other positions.

“I...truly?” he blinked, a look of bewilderment crossing his face.

She smiled. “Truly. You were once a Lord of a great house. You are well read and well spoken. A true and loyal friend to me in my darkest of days. It is far less then you deserve but I can think of no other person to uphold the laws and justice of Westeros then you.”

“I...I'm honoured Khaleesi.” he gaped, going to one knee.

“I find it ironic that a man banished for selling slaves is now going to be the law-giver of the land.” Tyrion quipped dryly.

“I paid for my mistake, Lannister.” Jorah grumbled, sighing as he rose to his feet. “If I could go back and undo what I did I would a thousand times over. But being with the Khaleesi since the beginning, I have been reborn from our trials.”

“It's alright Tyrion.” she raised a hand towards him as she ascended to the Throne. “I have preemptively pardoned Ser Jorah for his previous crime; and given all that we have endured together I cannot imagine he would do anything untoward.”

“There is one thing, Khaleesi that I would ask of you.” Jorah bowed as he seemed to ponder his words. “I would...like to return home to Bear Island, just to visit my family. To say sorry for what I have done.”

* * *

 

“Of course.” she smiled. “Perhaps I should ask the King in the North to bring Lady Lyanna with him.”

“Ah yes, Jon Snow, the King in the North.” Tyrion nodded, struggling to his feet. “Have you heard of him, Mormont?”

Jorah shook his head. “Ned Stark's bastard son?”

“The very same. And now he is their King, with my former betrothed Sansa Stark as Lady of Winterfell. Oh, and they were able to defeat the Others if you so believe – with the help of one the Queen's dragons.” Tyrion smirked towards the dumbfounded knight.

“I've missed a great deal it seems..” he blinked.

“Oh, well you'll be able to meet him in person when he arrives. We've received a reply from Winterfell, Your Grace – he is on his way with Rhaegal in tow.” Tyrion nodded.

She smiled at the news; it would be good to see him again on more gentle terms.

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon make a decision about King's Landing. Then they have naughty time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT AHOY, blah blah blah abandon all hope ye who don't like it.

Sansa stood in front of the mirror, naked as her nameday. She sighed softly as she ran her fingers through her hair, which flowed down to the shoulders. Her stomach had a slight curve to it, being that she was still in the early months of her pregnancy but that would change soon; Maester Wolkan had told her that it was usually in the third or fourth month that a woman began to really show, so she had been preparing the best she could for when that time came.

As she reached for her nightgown and slipped it on she removed the earrings and set them on the table in front of her. “I want to do this Jon.” she said firmly.

Jon, who sat on the edge of their bed wearing his night shirt and breeches let out a slight sigh. “Are you sure, Sansa? I'm not the man to make the decisions for you, obviously but the last time you went to King's Landing – well..”

“I know.” She smiled, taking the crown gently off her head and placing it next to her earrings. With Daenerys's letter requesting that Jon go south and meet with the newly installed Queen in the capital Sansa had immediately volunteered to go with him. She wanted to return to the city that had broken her down; only this time she would be strong enough to endure a visit.

“I just don't want to lose you, sweet girl.” Jon whispered as she took a seat beside him, his hands gently caressing her shoulders. “You've come so far since we retook Winterfell..” he placed a gentle kiss on her neck, causing her to shudder.

Jon was right; Sansa had been able to rebuild what was left of her shattered persona with his help. She was now able to balance the best of both worlds – not to be a naive, stupid little girl; foolishly trusting everyone and believing fairy tales but also refusing to become a Baelish-like manipulator of those closest to her; she would never sacrifice Jon for her own means like Petyr was willing to.

She was also with child; the thought of becoming a mother excited and gave her a new resolve – a resolve to never allow a man like Baelish to ever infest the roots of her mind again.

“We both have.” she answered, caressing his face gently. “and as your Queen I think it would be a good exercise in diplomacy for me.”

Jon grinned, shaking his head slightly. “I don't know...”

* * *

“Oh?” she teased, moving to straddle his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do you not want me to be more assertive? To take charge...” she kissed him deeply and firmly ripped open his shirt, running her hands down his chest. “...and take what I want?”

Jon let out a growl of desire at her actions, his hands running up the sides of her nightdress. She could feel his hardness throbbing through his pants and she slowly grinded herself on him, make him shudder with anticipation.

“You're a minx.” he whispered, his hands giving her behind a firm slap.

“Am I?” she moaned, rubbing herself against him even faster. “Does my King approve?”

“Gods yes..” he grinned, planting kisses on her neck-line. He could feel her wetness through the dress, staining his breeches ever so faintly.

“So...we will go to King's Landing together then.” she stated firmly, letting out a shiver of delight at his touches. She ached for him; her thighs becoming slick from want and desire.

She knew Jon would have said yes all the same – he truly treated her as an equal, giving her the same say as he in ruling the North; they were for all intents and purposes a duo – but she also knew what he liked, and being teased was something that drove him crazy.

“But of course...” was his strained reply, a shudder going through him as he spent on the inside of his breeches, letting out a moan of release in the process. She smirked at him and pulled his pants down, his cock deflating after its release, his seed staining the silk.

She grasped a new pair of breeches from the drawer to her right and handed them off to him, not before gently tracing a line around his cock with her tongue, lapping up the seed still staining it. The taste was faintly salty with a hint of heat – _must be the dragon in him_ , she giggled to herself.

* * *

“Oh no – I'm not done.” Jon whispered as he pulled the new breeches up his legs. As he did so he removed his hand from them and reached down to rub Sansa's sex as she stood up, her legs quivering as he did so.

“Jon...” she whispered, feeling him slip a finger inside of her.

“You think...you can tease your King and get away with it?” he grinned, moving his finger inside of her womanhood finding it already wet. “Such a naughty girl..”

“Mmmm...Punish me, Jon...” she moaned, grasping the edge of the bed for support.

He slid a second finger inside of her as they continued to thrust. His thumb rubbed the outside of her lips softly as she whimpered, her legs jerking about in the process.

“Come for me, Sansa...” he urged as she bit down on her lip, letting a squeal of delight fall from her lips as she felt her orgasm bubbling to the surface. “Your King needs to see you punished..”

“JON!” she barks out as she comes, her walls clenching around his fingers as he growls his approval. She collapsed onto the bed, panting softly as he licked his fingers clean.

“Mmm, like lemoncakes.” he teased, causing her to laugh.

“I deserved that, didn't I?” she replied, nuzzling up against his neck as they settled in.

“That you did, my love. That you did.”

* * *

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa prepare for departure.

“Bran and Arya will have control of the North while we are gone. The Queen and I have both decided.” Jon announced to the council, causing a wave of murmurs to shoot through the room. At his side Sansa stood, her arm wrapped around his.

"Given that they are my siblings, I trust them to make the decisions necessary for the North's continued future.” Sansa added, nodding towards her dumbfounded brother and sister.

“Is this a joke?” Arya stammered, taken aback by the announcement. “I mean, if it is you can stop now.”

“No joke, Arya.” Jon said, smiling at her as they took their seats. “We need a strong leader in Winterfell while we head south with the dragon. And gods willing, we will return with a proper agreement in place between us and King's Landing.”

“Jon...” Bran grasped the table as tight as he could. “I'm...I'm not interested in ruling. I have my studies to focus on.”

“You aren't going to be ruling Bran.” Sansa smiled ,reaching out her hand to grasp his. “We just need you and Arya to act as the family's representatives while this is all sorted out. Besides, Ser Davos, Tormund and the rest of the council will be on hand to support the both of you.”

“That's right, Your Grace.” Davos nodded, looking to the King and Queen knowingly. “I will be happy to help handle matters of state as best I am able as your Hand.”

“And if anyone gives you any trouble I'll kick their fucking asses!” Tormund announced, slamming his hands down.

Jon raised a hand to stop the idle chatter. “I know that this is unexpected but Sansa and I have decided in the best interest of establishing a proper relationship with the North and the South that both of us need to be down there for these talks.” _This time we won't go unawares._ “Queen Daenerys may be open to negotiation but who knows how things may turn out?”

“The King is right,” Sansa nodded. “and given my own experience in the capital I will be able to get a feel on her and the court, to better find a solution that they will be happy to accept.” The capital is a rat's nest, a den of liars – that won't change just because the leaders have. Jon knew that for a fact – Sansa's own experiences there had shaken him just from hearing about them second hand.

“What if something were to happen?” Lord Hornwood asked, his weathered face fresh with concern.

“Then Bran and Arya will act as rulers until the North can decide on a course of action.” she continued.

“Ghost, to me.” Jon felt his direwolf nuzzle against his hand, licking it softly. “I'm leaving Ghost here with you two to keep watch. Anyone gives you problems, feel free to give him some extra shall we say, incentive not to.”

Arya inhaled loudly, nodding to herself. “I...we can do this. But if you come back and it's turned to shit, it's not my fault.”

* * *

The hall turned to laughter as Jon rolled his eyes. “You two will have the best helpers in the land. Not to mention your uncle Edmure. I'm sure he knows a thing or two about ruling. I have no doubt in my mind about your abilities and neither does Sansa.” He dismissed the council, asking to speak with Bran and Arya – along with Sansa – in private.

“Why us, Jon?” Bran asked, shaking his head solemnly. “Why not Ser Davos? He is your Hand, after all.”

“That may be so Bran, but you are a Stark. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Jon said, smiling towards Sansa – who squeezed his hand tightly. “What way to guarantee no problems than by having two Starks rule in Winterfell?”

“You will do fine.” Sansa added. “Besides, Jon and I will be on a dragon. It won't take us long to go to King's Landing to speak with Daenerys, get everything in order and then start on our way back. Maybe if she is generous she'll lend us Rhaegal for the trip home.”

“Let's not worry about that now.” Jon snorted.

“I hope you don't expect us to get married.” Arya said, smacking Bran's arm.

“Arya!” Bran protested, laughing in return. “I don't need THAT image.”

“Well you are the one who can see things in the trees Bran – that might be something to look into.” Jon teased. Bran's greensight in truth fascinated him – it was an art of myth and legend, not something for the modern day. But yet here he was; the last of an ancient art; when he lost his legs he gained the ability to fly, so it seemed.

“Come on Bran, let's go find Davos and see if we can get him to do the job for us.” grumbled Arya as she helped him to the sleigh. “What? I was just kidding!” she mumbled after Sansa's reproachful glare.

* * *

Jon and Sansa watched the morning sun rise overhead from the balcony, the gentle glistening of snow accompanying the gentle breeze. It was cool but not cold; the perfect temperature for the region.

The pair stood holding hands as they smiled down at the courtyard. Once more there were at least a half dozen children running about, giggling and playing and having fun. Servants rushed this way and that while they tended to tasks and even a few horses were being trotted out for new shoes.

“I feel like I just get back and then we're ready to leave again.” Jon grinned towards Sansa. “Though this time it won't be so bad – you'll be with me.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way either.” she nodded, sighing wistfully. The thought of going to King's Landing still brought a sense of anxiety to her – it felt as though beetles were eating her insides – but she knew that to fully conquer the trauma of the past she would have to face the southern demons once more. “It's almost like a trial for me, Jon.”

“Trial? What do you mean?” he asked, looking to her.

“After everything that I endured there after Father lost his head. I was a fool – a stupid and naive one who was played as a fiddle by everyone. The Queen, the King, the lords and ladies; it was pathetic really, looking back.” she grimaced, the memories bringing unpleasant emotions to the surface.

“This time when I return I will be the one in control. I'll have cast off the shackles of my past – truly cast them off – for the sake of us and our child.” she nodded, gently guiding his hand to her stomach.

“You are the master now, not them.” Jon smiled, the feel of his child bringing a peaceful feeling over his concerned mind. “Baelish, Joffrey, Cersei – they all played their hands and lost. You've outlasted them all.”

Sansa smirked. “I have. It's a good feeling to be honest. I can't..can't really explain it.”

Jon leaned over to kiss her cheek softly. “It's alright, Sansa. You don't have to explain to me. I trust you.”

“Trust – that's something I never thought I would give again.” she mused, shivering as the breeze blew her hair slightly. “But thanks to you – I've been able to regain some of what was taken from me.”

“No no no, sweet girl.” Jon whispered, pulling her into his arms. She relaxed at his touch, leaning back into the warmth of his chest. “That's all been you.”

“Jon...” she whispered, chewing on her lip nervously. “Do..do you think I will be a good mother?” Sansa had finally been able to open up to him about her fear; given what she had seen, done and experienced – all of the hate and trauma and masks she had to wear just to endure the last few years – she worried that it would make her less of a person to their child. To be unworthy of bringing new life into the world.

Jon looked at her with a smile and shook his head. “No. I think you'll be a great mother, Sansa. The truth is, I've been torn up inside about my own abilities as a father. Given that I was always apart from the rest of the family and that I never knew my true father, I thought I would be the bad parent here.”

Sansa snorted derisively. “Oh, please. You'll be the good parent of us both. Me? I'll be the one that our little one runs away from to ask you for things.”

“Are you calling me weak?” Jon protested as he held in a laugh. “How dare you!”

Sansa laughed and spun around in his arms, pressing her lips against his own. They kissed like that for what felt like an eternity – the perceptions of time and season mattered little to the lovers – before breaking apart. “Not weak, Jon.” she whispered, voice sincere sounding. “you're the strongest man I know.”

Jon's cheeks flushed red. “Come on, let's get ready.” he smiled, walking out of the balcony with Sansa in hand.

* * *

A small crowd had gathered by the gates where Jon, Sansa and Rhaegal were preparing for their voyage. Rhaegal was laying in the grass, making the same purring sound that he did around Jon as the pair patted him softly. Jon was carrying a bag full of provisions and the same sealed lockbox that Howland Reed provided him with.

“Are you sure you want to bring that, Your Grace?” Davos asked him, raising a brow.

“Aye.” Jon said, nodding. “Daenerys deserves to know the truth. And besides, if she makes a stink about the Iron Throne I will disavow any claims I might have to the bloody thing.”

“Exactly, Ser Davos. Don't worry too much about it.” Sansa reassured him with a gentle hug. “Keep Arya and Bran on their toes now.”

“Always, my lady.” the Onion Knight smiled, bowing to Jon. “Be safe, Your Grace. Both of you – come back to us safe.”

“I do wish you would permit me to come with you, Lady Sansa.” Brienne of Tarth stood over by the dragon's flank, a look of sadness about her face. “I am sworn to protect you at all costs.”

“Brienne,” Sansa walked over to her and placed a gentle hand on the woman's bony shoulder. “I need you to stay here and protect my family. Bran and Arya are going to need you now, more then ever. You may be sworn to my service but I am sworn to my family's.”

“I understand, Lady Sansa.” she nodded, offering a stiff bow. “Be safe and may the old gods and the new watch over you both.”

* * *

Jon helped Sansa climb up onto Rhaegal's neck as she grasped the tough scales while settling in. He hopped up next, doing the same. Sansa then wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, preferring to hold him instead of the dragon. He'd secured the bag and box to his chest just in case of such close contact.

“We will be back before you know it. Rhaegal?” Jon called as the beast roared, launching itself into the air. In a flash the pair were off, soaring high above the skies with the white and green landscape passing beneath them in a series of rapid blurs.

Sansa did not feel afraid this time. She had ridden Rhaegal once before and just as then, she had her Prince – not one of the fakes out of the stories, but a real one – to keep her safe.

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron Greyjoy makes a deal.

Oldtown's docks were abuzz with activity – though not the same as they had been before the ironborn invasion. Gone were the trading vessels and merchant ships and galleys from the Mander. Most of the market stalls hawking fish and other trade goods were also absent.

In their place were row upon row of weapon racks, armor and chests overflowing with plunder; gold, diamonds, sapphires, everything a man would want. Many of the ships in the port were sailing back to the Iron Islands – and Euron wanted to make sure most of the tribute made it back so as to keep the other houses in line.

Aside from ironborn warships there was a single ship not of its make sitting in the port. It was a typical merchant ship from Essos flying no standard, but yet who had come into the harbor with an urgent missive for the King.

* * *

 

“So, why should I care what you have to offer me? I have plenty of your type.” he gabbed lazily, reaching over to a plate on his left and devouring a handful of grapes. Euron was treating with this captain on the balcony once belonging to a wealthy trading conglomerate.

Slaves were serving a healthy lunch of salt cod, beef and river fish with an assortment of fresh fruit.

The man took a gulp of the wine and waved over more. He displayed a cavalier attitude towards this meeting – indeed upon meeting him Euron was struck at how little fear he displayed. “You might, but you don't have any with the experience I have.”

“Watch your tongue, maggot! You're speaking to the King!” barked Lucas Codd from his left. Codd had taken it upon himself to act as Euron's unofficial guard; he allowed it because the man was useful to him that way.

“It's alright Lucas, let him speak.” Euron sighed, waving him off. “Apologies for that. Lucas can be a bit...aggressive.”

“Not to worry. I've dealt with worse, trust me.” the man grinned, taking a bite of some salted cod. “As I was saying – you and I both know the trouble you'll be in when she comes for that dragon flying overhead.”

The mercenary captain was talking of course of Daenerys Targaryen and her army. Already impressive with two dragons at her head, having the allegiance of the rest of Westeros made her a problem even for Euron.

Viserion was a great tool and a deadly fighter but even he was only one beast. “You're not wrong. But how could you seek to help me? I've heard everything from you sellswords; hell, I fought in some of the Yunkish free companies when I was a traveler.”

The captain scoffed, guzzling back his refilled goblet. “I served with her. I know how she works. What her strengths and weaknesses are. And what did I get for my years of loyalty? Abandoned in a shit pile city SHE helped create.”

“Ooh, someone's bitter.” Euron laughed.

“I am bitter. No question of it. But I did my duty – and I want some payback for her abandonment. I never loved a woman before her – and she took my life and spat it back at me.” the captain grumbled, his voice sullen.

_Love_ , Euron mused. _It's a dreadful emotion. Good thing I don't love anyone._ “Payback, hmm? Well, having a man who knows my Dragon Queen could prove useful.” He bit into some trout. “What would you want in return? I'm guessing gold dragons won't be enough.”

That earned a laugh from the captain. “Oh no. Gold? Fuck that. We've got enough of it. I want something more...valuable. Some land, maybe a title?” he smirked. “Most importantly I want to see her one last time before you finish her off. So I can be the one to spit in her face.”

“Help me deal with her and you'll have the biggest fucking castle I can think of.” Euron shrugged. Land was a useless commodity – given what would happen in the end, all would belong to him. Parcelling out the conquered territory to those who wanted it was of no concern at all.

“Sounds like a plan to me. At least, if you can deliver.” the captain smirked. “I've heard rumors about you ironborn types; that you're wont to play fast and loose with promises.”

“Someone's done their homework.” Euron snickered. “Ask the lords and other captains who have supported me thus far. I've given some of them whole islands to rule as their own. Others, I've supplied them with massive warships for their fleets. Even more I've made as wealthy as half of Westeros.”

Biting into a handful of tomatoes the captain nodded thoughtfully. “Can you deliver her back into my arms? Into my bed?”

“Ahh, so you and her had something back in Meereen, was it?” Euron said, a sly smile playing on his mouth. _A spurned foreign lover – how very saucy of you, Daenerys._

“I thought we did. But apparently I wasn't worthy enough to bring with her to Westeros. Instead, she left me behind to govern a city. Me, help govern a city! Can you imagine?” the captain scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Sellswords ruling cities. Now that's something you don't see every day.” Euron quipped.

“Not to rule it. Keep the peace until they figured out who would rule it. And you know what? I did that. Without her there, no point in staying around. So I called the company together; we stole some ships and now...well, now I'm here.”

Euron gulped down the last of his wine. “And you know her well, given that you were lovers.”

“Very well. I know Missandei, her translator. And her Unsullied eunuchs. Even that exiled knight Jorah Mormont – the old man who's in love with her. I know what makes her tick. What makes her toes curl. What makes her scream. And we can use all of it to our advantage. So what do you say? Interested?” the captain smirked, winking towards him.

* * *

_It was a good day, Euron mused._

Having gained the allegiance of the Second Sons – thanks in part to the embittered leader, Daario Naharis – had given him a significant advantage in knowing and anticipating Daenerys and her future endeavours. Naharis would prove to be one of the more useful additions to his inner circle in the coming weeks; it would be nice to have someone who didn't reek of body odour and salt brine all the time as well.

Lucas Codd had also informed him of some less then good news; the Drowned Men were still preaching against his rule on Old Wyk. Euron had sent the Goodbrothers to execute those who were speaking against him, but some of them had been able to escape and were attempting to rally the small-folk of the islands against him.

“Let them!” Euron had laughed in the man's face. “I am not afraid of any peasant uprising, especially given what we have with us.”

“You should hear what they say, Your Grace.” Codd said, his face coated in sweat. “They say that no godless man should sit the Salt Throne. They are trying to twist you into some kind of faithless heathen. Likely Damphair's doing.”

Euron loved the irony.

He was the definition of a godless man – having shed long ago the delusion of faith to the sea. But he would not be a godless man for very long; given that when the secret of the diamond was laid bare HE would be a god.

“My dearest brother loves to tell tall tales.” he scoffed, tapping his fingers on the table. “Send word to the Goodbrothers that I want those Drowned Men found and...well, drowned.”

“Aye, m'lord. One more thing -” Codd began, but Euron silenced him with a wave.

“The wildfire, I assume?” There was plenty of the substance left for his forces to use. So, Euron had done the next best thing – every citizen of Oldtown who defied him or his orders would be collected and sent to the stockades. Every week, when there was a good number of them(at least a dozen, sometimes upwards of two dozen on a good week) he would have them burnt alive for all to see.

Such is the price of defying Euron the God.

“How many this time?” he asked Lucas, idly picking crumbs from his teeth.

“Eight. Seems like they're growing bold. Attacked and killed two of our sentries in the western market.” Codd frowned.

_Ooh, I like that._ “Very nice. Make sure you take it slow. Pour the wildfire on each limb – make it last as long as you can. Draw out their screams for the dear people.”

“Marcus Botley is stirring up shit again, too. Says 'es gonna take his ships and sail up the Mander with or without the King's permission. Want me to put a knife in him?” Lucas grinned, his mouth full of yellowed teeth.

House Botley was among those who caused a great deal of trouble for Euron; it was said but not proven that they were sheltering the Drowned Men who'd escaped his purges. “Slap him in irons and bring him to me. I'll talk to him myself.” Euron had ideas on how best to deal with the captain; and deal with him he shall.

_Time to test out the other features of my armor._

* * *

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa fly towards King's Landing. They stop for food and sexy time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT AHOY! TURN BACK NOW!

Closing her eyes Sansa let the wind soar through her. It felt like a gentle caress, with her body sheltering behind Jon's. Rhaegal flew straight and unbending, allowing her hair to flit about this way and that. Her arms comfortably wrapped around Jon's waist she sighed, content in the moment.

They had been flying nonstop since leaving Winterfell yesterday and while she'd fallen asleep several times, waking up nuzzled in Jon's back, he had yet to sleep and it showed on his face. Great dark circles sat under his eyes as he clutched tightly to his seat atop Rhaegal's neck. None the less he still found the energy to occasionally lean back and whisper sweet words of love and encouragement into her ear – even if his voice was beginning to sound slurred from his lack of sleep.

“Jon,” she shouted, leaning her head on his shoulder. “you should bring him down and rest. Both of you!” While dragons could fly for days without food so long as they were in good health Rhaegal was still a young drake, nowhere near as large as Daenerys's own beast named Drogon; as Jon explained it he was the size of two Rhaegals put together.

Much to her surprise he nodded. “Aye, I think you're right.” Leaning down he gently slapped Rhaegal's rubbery flesh. “Bring us down, friend – find yourself a nice river and have a drink.”

A roar was his answer; though not one of hostility or anger but a quiet, low and almost grateful one emitted from the dragon as he slowly began to drop down, still in a straight line and still unbending. Sansa grasped tighter to Jon as she could see the green fields below growing closer and closer. “Where are we?” she whispered, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“That's...a good question.” he laughed, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly. “I'd imagine by now we're at least halfway through the Riverlands if not nearly past the Trident.”

Rhaegal crashed into the ground as Sansa and Jon jostled about atop his neck, the beast digging his claws into the earth and tearing up gashes of mud and grass. He let out a mighty roar as his neck lowered, allowing Jon to hop down to the ground. He grasped Sansa's hands and helped her down as well.

Her lower body hurt; her legs were cramped and she felt the start of saddle sores forming on the inside of her thighs. “Saddle sores, even though we're not in a saddle?” she laughed at the irony.

“Dragon-sores just doesn't have the same ring to it!” Jon said, snickering at her.

* * *

The dragon stomped away, going towards a small creek bed where he began to lap greedily at the water, the slurps and snorts from his massive nostrils echoing through the morning air. Jon and Sansa meanwhile took a seat on a set of rocks nearest the creek, opening up some of the food they'd packed for the journey.

“I know it's not the best fare,” Jon said, biting into some beef jerky, “but you and the babe need to eat. No questions about it.”

Sansa grinned, slapping his arm playfully as she drank down some wine. The taste was slightly sour but nourishing, so she stretched her legs out and sighed happily, kicking her shoes free. “It feels like we should stay here forever!”

“Aye, do you want to write Winterfell and tell them we quit?” Jon laughed, taking some wine of his own. “Bran and Arya would shit themselves.”

Sansa stood up, letting the cool grass and dirt run through her toes as she sauntered over to Jon, sitting down in his lap. She pulled up her dress enough to expose her growing belly to him, as he ran his fingers over her skin.

“Still doesn't feel real,” he whispered as she leaned into his neck. “that we're going to be parents.”

Sansa nodded, gently kissing his cheek. “I just think back to what I told Father before...before we left for King's Landing. I told him I wanted to marry a prince and have his babies. Well – I've married a King and am having his baby.” she giggled, pulling her legs up to rest over his own.

Jon snorted. “I wonder what he'd say if he saw us now. Probably take us to task for being so inappropriate.”

Sansa laughed, rolling her arms around his neck. “I just think about what Mother would say.”

“Oh gods!” Jon bit down on his lip, smacking the rock as he tried not to laugh. “She'd probably murder me and spread my entrails all around the godswood.” Biting down on the jerky he returned his hand to Sansa's stomach. “I think I just felt the babe move.” he exclaimed, feeling a slight rumble.

“I did too!” she exclaimed, finishing the last of her wine.

Jon smirked at her, his eyes glinting with mischief. He slipped off the rock as Sansa put her legs back down on the ground, staring at him with a curious expression.

“What are you up to, Jon Snow?”

* * *

Jon knelt down before her, pushing her legs apart ever so slightly. She felt her small-clothes being pushed away to expose her womanhood to the cool air as Jon let out a slight growl; it made her tingle every time he did that. She liked the animal in him.

“I've decided I want something else to eat.” he grinned at her before burying his face into her cunt, his lips finding her nub almost at once and beginning to lick and suck at it.

Sansa's body bucked at his touch, her hands flying to his head as she let out a shrill moan of delight at his actions. She felt the intensity of his lips building in her sex, with every lick and suck on her nub causing her legs to shake violently, her inner thighs glistening with wetness.

“JON!” she shouted, using her hands to push his face deeper into her womanhood; the obscene sucking sounds growing faster and louder. She felt a hand slide a finger into her as he continued his oral attack and she shivered, biting down on her lip. “Nnngh...don't stop...” she whimpered.

His finger slid in and out of her faster and faster as his lips sucked at her increasingly achy nub, her body now jerking wildly from left to right. Rhaegal was watching them with a curious expression, she realized – a blush coming to her cheeks at her awareness of an audience; albeit a non human one.

“Jon...I'm so close...oh Jon...” she moaned, brushing her hands through his hair. The power of her orgasm nearly shot her off the rock, Sansa gripping tightly to Jon's hair as she struggled to move her trembling body so as not to topple off and injure them or the baby.

Jon's eyes glinted up at her. “Delicious. I'm still hungry though..” he whispered, causing Sansa to shudder as she laid back fully on the rock, sobbing with pleasurable delight as he continued his almost gluttonous attack on her cunt.

His oral skills were such that she came three more times before he finally relented, rising to his feet with his mouth covered in her nectar. She was whimpering atop the rock, gingerly pulling her small-clothes back into place as her mind was overloaded with the sensations he'd inflicted upon her.

“Gods...you're ravenous.” she noted, panting wildly. He merely grinned towards her, returning to his seat on the rock.

“I needed to break my fast, have some lunch, supper and a dessert.” Jon quipped, wiping his mouth dry.

Sansa covered her face with a palm, snickering all the while. “You're awful.”

Off by the creek Rhaegal roared at them, craning his head in a curious manner. “He was...he was watching us while you were feasting.” she noted, pointing towards him.

Jon laughed, waving towards the beast. “He wants to see how humans mate! See, we're like teachers now. Come on, let's get some rest then we'll continue the flight.”

The pair moved from the rocks to the soft grass, falling asleep in each others arms rather quickly.

A few hours later and they were airborne once again, soaring through the bright and sunny skies. Sansa found her eyes growing heavy once again, and despite Jon's movements – his breath, his shifting atop the dragon, his various grunts and groans – she struggled to remain awake. Even the rushing wind did nothing to help; indeed, it only made her grow more fatigued.

* * *

She dreamt of knives. Cutting and slashing and tearing into her skin. She saw his face again – Ramsay's – as he smirked down at her, violating her in every which way. She saw the smiling, deceptive face of Petyr Baelish as he put a knife to her throat and twisted. She found herself bound to the floor, being violated with every type of object that the Bastard of Bolton could imagine. He stood over her and watched, laughing his cruel melody.

He reached down and grasped her by the chin, lifting her head up to sniff at her. “Good girl. I can smell your fear.” he whispered, cutting another chunk of flesh from her chest. All the while Baelish sat in a chair opposite the scene, watching with dispassionate interest. “Don't look at him.” Ramsay sneered.

Sansa felt his grubby hands at her throat, her breasts, and her sex. “You belong to me. I may be gone but it's like I told you – I'm part of you.” he whispered as his face dissolved into an angry cacophony of barking dogs.

“Play with her arse,” came Baelish's quiet tone from the chair. Ramsay shot him a glare. “she likes it just like her whore mother did.”

The door of the room flew open to reveal a knight, garbed in armor made of falling snow. He drove his pure white blade through Baelish's head and out his back, throwing the corpse to the ground as he continued to talk regardless.

“Chaos is a ladder.”

The knight stomped over to the barking Ramsay and threw him off Sansa, grasping his head and pulling his intestines out the hole in his neck. Every time she saw it, it made her feel better. The dreams had, for the longest time been various instruments of torture Ramsay had inflicted upon her with the help of a sadistic Baelish. But after she and Jon shared their first kiss they had changed; the knight began to appear. First once a week, then every other day, finally every night.

It was why she did not wake up screaming, flailing about as she fell to her death from the back of Rhaegal. Jon was her knight in winter's armour. And he had saved her – and continues to save her – in every dream that brings the familiar sound and sensation of the torturer's knives.

* * *

“...Sansa? Are you alright? Sansa?” came the voice in her ear as she struggled to open her eyes, the wind blowing hair into her vision as she came to, the faint twinkling of the night sky passing by.

“How long was I asleep?” she realized, the darkness taking her by surprise.

“A few hours. I heard you mumbling and what not, and you gripped my sides really tight – so I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Jon smiled, nuzzling her face softly with his fuzzy chin.

“I dreamt of him again.” she said, her face becoming downcast.

“Ramsay.” he seethed, grinding his teeth together. “He...he can't hurt you again, Sansa. I promise. You finished him off – you saw him obliterated.”

Sansa smiled. She had been surprised when telling Jon of her former husband's fate – having fed him to his own bloodthirsty and starving hounds – of how he approved of what she had done. But even now the fires of vengeance still ran in her veins – though they were tempered, thanks in part to Jon's support.

“I'd have cut off bits of him slowly. Started with his cock and worked my way up!” Jon quipped, laughing. “But enough about him. He's gone – and so is that other cock Littlefinger. I just want to think about two things...you and me.” he kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Jon, look!” Sansa shouted, pointing ahead of them. There, off in the distance loomed the great spire of the Red Keep.

“We should be able to reach it by morning.” he smiled, rolling his shoulders ever so slightly.

Sansa snuggled in tighter, her head resting on his shoulder. They were about to enter the rat's nest once more – only this time, she had all the traps necessary to come out alive.

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People in the Red Keep do stuff.

“And the name of the hero who allegedly raised Storm's End?” Sam asked, smiling nervously towards his pupil. In the corner, Little Sam fussed around in his mother's lap as she watched with fascination.

“I dunno. Dur-something?” was Gendry's answer, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

“Durran Godsgrief.” Sam nodded, patting his shoulder. He had been assigned to teach the newest Lord of Storm's End how essentially to be a lord – to read, write, learn his sums, and of course the histories of his territory – and it was slow going. Gendry was a bastard, raised up from Flea Bottom.

“Right. Durran Godsgriff.” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders. “Some hero he was. Couldn't even have a name that wasn't stupid sounding.”

“Gendry, you know that you have to learn this stuff if you want to rule the Stormlands.” Sam said, shaking his head slightly as he fished for another book. “a lord must know the history of his own castle especially when discussing it with fellow lords.”

“I don't want to be a fucking lord, though.” he grumbled. Gendry had not been raised up by choice – he'd been horrified by the proclamation that the Queen had made and had protested since the day it left her lips to leave him be. “I was a blacksmith; I was happy being a blacksmith.”

Sam smiled sympathetically at him. _I can understand your anger,_ he thought. Sam was happy being a steward of the Night's Watch back on the Wall – until he decided in his haste to go south and train as a maester. Now – what was there? Oldtown was sacked, taken by a madman who meant to rule over all of the land and the Wall was gone, having been blasted into pieces.

“I know, the Queen needs lords to support her. By putting a son of Robert Baratheon in power she is making an excellent decision for the future of the realm.”

“Fuck the realm.” Gendry said, flipping the book in front of him shut. “Just let me do my work in peace.”

“You're being too hard on Sam, Gendry.” Gilly chided from her seat. “He's doing his best to teach you. And even though you don't want to learn you could at least show some respect.”

“I know. Sorry, Sam. But this is just...overwhelming for me.” he sighed, tapping his fingers on the book.

Gendry was a good student otherwise, Sam noted. He'd taken to reading quite well – and could sign his name as though he already knew how. Sums were another matter; Sam himself had a hard time with numbers and Gendry struggled to pick up on some of their nuances.

“Alright, alright. We've gone over Storm's End enough.” Sam put down the book from Gendry's desk. “Just answer me one question and we can break for today. What was the name of the last Storm King before Aegon's conquest?”

Gendry rolled his eyes, chewing idly on his lip. “Argilac the Arrogant. Cut off hands of envoys and what not.”

“See? You know more then you think.” Sam smiled. “Alright, go on.”

Gendry rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, bounding down the hallway. Sam turned to Gilly and shrugged ever so slightly. “He's learning. I think the Queen will be happy.”

Gilly rocked little Sam back and forth; the toddler having fallen asleep in her arms. “I think it's amazing that you can learn all of that with books and pictures. You'll have to teach me sometime.”

“I'd be..be happy to!” he smiled, strolling over to where she sat and gently taking her hand. “I'm glad you are enjoying all of this, Gilly. I only want...want the best for you and the baby.”

“I know, Sam – we know.” she smiled, leaning up to kiss him gently. Sam tensed at her touch, still getting used to the feel of a woman's lips on his own.

“Well...what do you say we go put little Sam to bed and...and go watch some of the guards train?” he stammered, grinning sheepishly.

* * *

He could not hear the sea from the castle. No matter how many times he protested or demanded to be let go the Dragon Queen refused to allow Aeron to commune with the God; too dangerous given the wreckage lining the Blackwater Bay.

_Nonsense,_ he thought. He was a Drowned Man – he had been chosen by his God to enforce his will throughout the Iron Islands. Now he was far from home and forced to bend the knee to green-landers. _Perhaps this is how Balon felt when Robert Baratheon crushed his kingdom._ He needed to be out there; feeling the caress of the tides and the call of the Drowned God. In truth he needed to return to his home and his people.

Yara had brought tidings that some of the Drowned Men were rising against Euron; they were rallying the small-folk of the Islands to denounce him as their king. No godless man may sit the Salt Throne, they had decreed. He should be there, leading them in the charge against those who allied with the madman King.

If Aeron had his way he would drown all those who supported Euron and leave none standing. Those who blaspheme against the God were the worst scum; even more so then the green-landers as they did not worship the God and thus did not know his caress.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter.” he barked, not bothering to turn around.

“Hello, Uncle.” Yara greeted, taking a seat in a chair nearest the fire. “How are you?”

“What does it matter? I am here, away from the embrace of the God and surrounded by green-landers and their Queen.” he sighed, turning away from the window and towards her. “While I am here Euron is making a mockery of our people with his new kingdom.”

He knew Euron best; the man had always been unstable, even before his alleged voyage to Valyria. Yet he had seen the effect of the dragon horn in action – and it was clear that his brother had gone to the destroyed peninsula and somehow returned alive.

“I know.” Yara sighed, pouring herself some wine. “but we have to have hope. The Drowned Men -”

“They will fail without me.” Aeron interrupted with a scoff. “My brothers of the waves are fine priests enough but they do not know Euron as I. Already I have heard many have been put to the sword by his Goodbrother servants.”

Yara took a gulp of the wine, leaning back in the chair. “No way we can smuggle you back. Euron's got the entirety of the Isles as far as Lonely Light under his control. There's ships all over the place – all flying his flag.”

“I cannot even commune with the God. The woman you sold yourself to refuses to allow me even His embrace.” he grumbled bitterly.

“I haven't sold myself to anyone, Uncle.” she replied, her voice full of irritation. “I made a choice for the best of our people. If Euron got to Daenerys first what do you think would have happened? Nothing good, and I know it.”

“And what do you think will happen now? Euron has a dragon. He has an ancient walled city, guarded by the entirety of his Iron Fleet. He has ancient artifacts from old Valyria itself. Tell me Yara, what will happen now?” he asked, narrowing his eyes toward her.

“We'll win. As simple as that.” she replied, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “and when we do we'll throw Euron into the sea and drown him.”

“No. He does not deserve even that.” Aeron sat himself on his chair; a small cushion that he'd dunked repeatedly in water much to the confusion of the castle servants. “Remove his head from his body and bury it.”

“None of that matters if we can't break him somehow.” Yara finished the last of her wine. “We have, what, less then a hundred ships of our own? Even with the Targaryen fleet -”

“It will not be enough. The green-landers do not know Euron or our raiders as we do. We must be the ones to overthrow him as we are of his people.” he nodded, “I understand your skepticism but I too was born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy. Euron and I are of the same blood.”

“So what do you want us to do, Uncle?” she asked, slamming the goblet on the table. “Sail back to the Islands and ask them nicely to overthrow Euron?”

Aeron glared at her, unimpressed with the sarcasm. “Get me into Oldtown. I will be able to start spreading dissent among the ironborn who serve Euron without knowing the real man. If they are devoted to the Drowned God as most of our people are, they will hear my words. No godless man will sit the Salt Throne. That will be my message.”

“Theon already went there and look at what happened!” she shouted, rising angrily to her feet.

“Theon went to distract Euron. I go in secret to fan the flames of rebellion. There is a difference, girl.” he said. “Give me a vessel. We will sail into Oldtown and I will debark. You need not do anything else; you may remain with the court of the green-lander Queen if you so wish.”

Yara walked to the window, staring out into the afternoon sun. “And if you fail?”

Rising slowly off his cushion Aeron allowed himself a slight smile. “Then I will feast in the halls of the Drowned God, alongside Balon, Rodrick, Maron and Theon.”

* * *

Opening the door to Jaime's chambers Tyrion braced himself, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for the confrontation. He found his brother sat at a table set beside one of the windows, idly reading a tome on the history of the Kingsguard.

“Hello, Jaime.” Tyrion greeted him, offering a smile.

“Tyrion.” he replied, not looking up from his book. “I should congratulate you. Hand of the Queen. Impressive.”

“Can we speak?” Tyrion asked, stepping into the room proper. He hated the cold and almost impersonal nature that awaited him; he knew the reason for it – his having repaid Jaime's kindness by killing their father – but it hurt him none the less. Jaime had been the only one to show him any kindness when they were growing up.

“There's nothing to say, is there? I freed you from Cersei's machinations and you repaid me by killing our father.” Jaime sighed, putting the book aside.

“You know what he was like to me. What he did. How he framed me.” Tyrion shot back angrily, climbing into one of the plush seats in the middle of the room. “You might have been the favourite child but even you could see that.”

Jaime rose to his feet, glaring at his brother. “Of course I saw it! I spent decades sticking up for you, protecting you. From Cersei and her cruelty, from the other nobles at Casterly Rock and their mockeries. From -”

“From Father and his cruelties.” Tyrion finished for him, smiling sadly.

Slumping back into the chair Jaime held his head with his good hand, rubbing his temple. “I...I know why you did it. I do, it's just...different for me, I suppose – being that I never had to grow up being treated the way you were.”

“Aye, you were normal. I was the freak who killed Mother.” he answered, idly tapping his fingers together.

“That's not true and you know it.” Jaime said, rising from the chair and sauntering over to the plush seats, sinking into the one beside Tyrion. “If Mother were alive today things...thing might be different. But she wouldn't tolerate the way anyone treated you.”

“Perhaps. But I never got to meet her.” he sighed. “I just get to hear stories about her from you and our sweet sister.”

“Cersei...” Jaime sighed. He knew that they had been placed next to each other; she could often be heard ranting and raving to herself about the Throne and her position as Queen.

“Yes, our dear sweet former Queen.” Tyrion laughed. “I can only imagine Robert's face if he was alive to see THAT one.”

That brought a laugh to both of their lips. It was bittersweet; being able to share a laugh with a sibling.

_With a friend,_ Tyrion thought wistfully.

“So, when do I lose my head?” Jaime asked, smirking towards him. “That's why you're here, isn't it?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. And I don't even know IF you'll lose your head. I've been in the meetings with the Small Council; we've been debating this constantly with the Queen. Some want you to die for your crimes while others...they want to pardon you.”

“And by 'others', you mean yourself.” Jaime chuckled. “Your concern for me is touching Tyrion, but I've accepted my fate.”

“I haven't!” he retorted. A silence crept over the brothers as they sat, staring awkwardly at the floor. “You might be ready to die Jaime, but I'm not ready to let you go just yet.”

“And Cersei?” Jaime asked.

“I...I asked for mercy for her too. Even after everything she's done. At the very least I want her death to be quick and painless. Let her take poison or remove her head.” Tyrion nodded. “I have to ask – do you still love her?”

“I'll always love her, Tyrion. But...I can't abide what she's become. The person that I loved – the beautiful, passionate and fearless woman of our youth – died a long time ago. I just couldn't realize it because I was blind. Now, what has brought me? Our children dead. Hundreds of innocent people dead. The Lannister name in the toilet.” Jaime laughed. “I can only imagine what Father would think.”

“Oh he would be enraged.” Tyrion quipped. “Especially given...well, never mind.”

“That you're Lord of Casterly Rock? You deserve it. I never wanted to be a ruler – I always just wanted to be a warrior.” Jaime shrugged. “You're the most like him. In terms of your thinking; it's keen and strong just like his.”

“If I am successful in getting you a pardon, you can be Lord of Casterly Rock. I'll see to it.” Tyrion smiled. “You're the elder.”

“No, Tyrion. I don't want Casterly Rock. I never really have.” he reclined in the chair, sighing contently. “I even told Father that he should give it to you once – he slapped me so hard across the face that I lost a tooth. Thankfully it was just a baby tooth.”

“Now that sounds like him.” Tyrion laughed. “I'll keep...keep advocating on your behalf, Jaime. The Queen was impressed when she visited with you the other day – so that is a good sign at least. I know that the Reach lords aren't too happy given what happened with Olenna Tyrell and her family.”

“How is the Queen of Thorns?” Jaime had heard of her imprisonment by Cersei – and her subsequent release upon Daenerys's capture of the city – but little else.

“She's well, all things considered. Apparently Cersei was going to wait until she'd defeated us before beginning to physically torture her.” Tyrion answered, his face grim. “Mathis Rowan is representing the Reach on the Small Council as Master of Coin. She's heading back to rebuild Highgarden.”

“She's the last of a great house.” Jaime mused.

“She is. And she knows it – but there are some cousins and a bastard or two she's considering naming as heir. At least the Tyrell name will carry on.” Rising to his feet Tyrion nodded. “I need to get back. We've a lot to prepare for – The King in the North is on his way for negotiations and he's bringing the Queen's second dragon.”

“Ahh, Jon Snow. I remember him from Winterfell all those years ago. I asked him if he knew how to use a sword.” Jaime laughed. “Apparently he did and does. When you see him, give him my regards.”

“I will.” Tyrion ambled over and hugged Jaime as best he could – Jaime reached down and returned the hug. “Stay strong, brother.”

“I won't promise anything but I'll do my best, Tyrion.” Jaime sighed.

_I'll do my best – whatever is left in me to give, anyway._

* * *

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reveals the secret to Daenerys. She formulates a plan for both the North and South.

Daenerys read the letter over again, mouthing over key words as she did so. A growing pang of emotion grew in her heart; a mixture of hope, surprise and fear. “So...Cersei Lannister was telling the truth.” she whispered, exhaling sharply.

Across the table Jon nodded, keeping his gaze on the polished marble. “That's right.” His face betrayed an expression of shame and regret; clearly the revelation of this magnitude having been kept from him for so long had affected him.

 _I am not alone in this world,_ she thought. Since Viserys's death at the hands of Khal Drogo she had thought herself as the last Targaryen. The barren heiress of a once-great family that would die out with her; never knowing her mother, father or brother –never having a chance to know the ancient Targaryen history or customs.

 _It explains so much about Lyanna Stark_ , her mind reasoned. Her brother had been in love with her – madly, passionately in love – and she with him. They had run away together due to the circumstances in their lives; a Stark and a Targaryen, together? It had never happened nor would have ever been allowed to happen.

Placing the letter down she picked up and read over the annulment of Rhaegar's marriage to Elia Martell once again – damning evidence that the heir to the Iron Throne now sat before her. “Do...do you know what this means?” she asked, fixing her gaze on the King.

He shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. “It means nothing to me.” he sighed, drumming his fingers on the marble edge. “But I know what it could mean to you – and your claim on the Seven Kingdoms.”

* * *

He was right. When news of this reached the rest of the realm there would be many lords and other nobles who'd desire to see a son of the famed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Throne. They would rally to his cause and declare for him; casting her aside as a usurper herself.

“I've already thought of how to proceed.” Jon said, nodding in her direction. “I will write a statement disavowing and denying all claims I have to the Iron Throne, the same with any...any heirs I may produce.”

“Even that may not be enough.” Daenerys smiled sadly. “My brother – your father – was beloved by the entirety of the realm. There will be many who will want to see his son sit the -”

“I'm not his son.” Jon said firmly, slamming his fist on the table. “I never knew Rhaegar Targaryen. He was nothing to me. I know, he was your brother – and someone you cared about, the same as the realm – but he wasn't my father. Ned Stark was – and always will be – my father.”

That was another revelation that had shaken her. Ned Stark – a man best known for giving his life for his honor – had been lying to the realm for over two decades. All to protect a child he did not even know. “I know, Jon. But...either way, this changes everything.”

Jon sighed, his head collapsing into his hands. “All of my life, I wanted to be a Stark. More than anything in the world. I didn't want to be 'the bastard', hated and despised by everyone. And now – I find out I'm not even a Stark.” he grumbled, laughing bitterly.

“You are a Stark. And a Targaryen. A child of the wolf and dragon both.” she smiled, folding her hands on the table. “Now we need to figure this out – before we have a crisis on our hands.”

“I already said, I will disavow any interest in the Throne and -”

“...and that for your children, I know. But that is where the problem lies.” Daenerys rose to her feet, walking over to one of the windows. “I am barren. I can no longer have children; even if I marry the Targaryen line will die with me.”

Jon nodded, his face weary.

“But any child you sire will have the blood of the dragon.”

He inhaled, his stomach contorting with dread. He knew that revealing all of this to Daenerys would be difficult – but now it seemed that she was trying to snare him into her long-term plans for the Iron Throne. “I am King in the North. My child – any that I have – will be King or Queen after me.”

“Yes. Your place is in the North; I know that.” she said, turning to face him. “but...I do believe a solution has presented itself.”

“And what solution would that be?” he asked, his hands trembling.

* * *

“The North has always been a difficult region; the allegiance of the Starks to the Targaryens has been fraught with difficulties. But you – with the blood of both the wolf and the dragon – could and will be a facet to secure the North's loyalty. I still speak honestly when I say that I do not want your submission – your people are proud, and I accept that.” she clasped her hands in front of her stomach. “Therefore we must tie House Targaryen with the North.”

“And...how would you see that done?”

She exhaled softly, returning to her seat. Her eyes studied Jon ever so gently before she nodded to herself. “Like it or not you are the son of my brother Rhaegar. You have his blood – and the blood of old Valyria – in your veins. Tell me, who is the current Lady of Winterfell?”

“Sansa. She's the eldest child of my father.” Jon stated plainly.

“You will marry Sansa Stark. Through this you will bind the North and South together. I had thought of taking you as my Prince-Consort, but as I have said – I am barren and no heirs for the throne will come from our union.” she shrugged her shoulders.

“And...what about the Iron Throne?” Jon asked. His mind was swimming with amusement now, the fear having been replaced. _Oh Daenerys, if only you knew._ He fought the urge to laugh at the irony of it all – but he remembered Sansa's lessons on playing the game; always keep a straight face.

“When your son or daughter comes of age he or she will take my place on the Iron Throne when I am dead.” she answered, her face firm. “They will need to take the name Targaryen to ensure that the family line lives on.”

“But – what about the North?” Jon asked, his mind wrapping with dread once more.

“Any other children the two of you may have will be able to inherit the North.” Daenerys smiled. “I am not a cruel woman Jon, but I have not battled for so long and sacrificed so much to see my family – our family – die out in a generation.”

_She'd have us give up our child._

Jon felt his body becoming slack from emotion. “You...you ask a great deal of me. To give up any child of ours -”

“No. I am not asking you to give anything up, Jon.” Daenerys raised a hand. “Your child will still be your child. Nothing will change save his or her name. You may even decide to come to King's Landing with them. And they need not even come to the south until I am dead.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as Jon sunk his head into his sweaty palms once more. “First, you ask me to marry Sansa. A girl I grew up with as my sister. Second – if I get a child on her, we have to send it South to rule.” he groaned.

“Consider this me calling in the debt you owe me. Agree to this; wed Sansa here in the Red Keep. The two of you will then sign the agreement between our two Houses regarding the future of your child. Once that is done, the realm will be at peace. The issue settled. And we can return to the task at hand.” she stated, her voice firm. Yet her eyes were unable to look at him; instead glancing down at the table.

Jon knew this was the best he could hope for from Daenerys. She was not trying to wed him or demand allegiance from the North. Marrying Sansa – well, that was the easy part, considering they were already married in the eyes of the North and the old gods – and giving up their first child; the one Sansa currently carried in her womb? That was the most difficult aspect of this.

Yet Jon knew that if he refused she would retaliate against not only him but Sansa and the rest of the North. “...Let me speak with Sansa about all of this. Please.” he asked, biting down on his lip.

“Of course. We should speak to her together.” Daenerys smiled.

* * *

Sansa kept a neutral and curious face as Daenerys explained the plan. Marry Jon, have a child with him – and when Daenerys dies the child must go South, take the Targaryen name and rule Westeros. Of course she was already married to Jon and was carrying his child; those two points were moot. But the idea of her first born son or daughter having to give up their home in the North and rule the rat's nest that was King's Landing?

After what happened to her while she was here the idea terrified her. Jon sat at her side, squeezing her hand gently. He looked just as pained as she felt – Sansa could see the faintest hint of tears forming in his eyes.

“I know this is not something you would want Lady Sansa, but...we must have a way to both secure the future of Westeros and ensure a fair and respectful alliance with the North.” Daenerys finished, smiling towards her as she took a drink of her tea.

It had been her idea to not reveal the truth of their marriage under the auspices of protecting themselves; if she wanted Jon to marry someone else in exchange for the North's independence then he would be free to tell her – as would she.

The fact she carried their child was also a carefully guarded secret; before their departure Sansa had made sure to wear the largest gown she could have made, so as the child grew within her, the dress would not become tight and show signs of her childbearing.

“Marry Jon.” she stated, eyes glancing down to her hands. “after the marriages and betrothals that I have endured all these years. First to Joffrey and then to Ramsay Bolton. I hope you can understand my...hesitation.”

Daenerys nodded. “Of course. But from what both of you say Jon is nothing like those men.”

“I...I know this is strange Sansa.” Jon added, gazing directly into her eyes. “but it makes sense for the future of the North. We're cousins, not siblings.”

Sansa had to bite back a smile at Jon's ability to lie – it was coming along rather nicely. “So, any child we have would need to be raised in the South?”

“No, not at all.” Daenerys finished her tea. “You would raise your son or daughter in Winterfell, being parents to them always. But when I die – which hopefully won't be for a long time yet – they will travel South, claim the Targaryen name and become King or Queen.”

It was not the most idea situation for any of them – but at the very least she would be allowed to raise her first child. “I see...no alternative but to agree, Your Grace.” she nodded. “But given my own experiences here in the past..”

“Yes, this city is a rat's nest.” Daenerys scowled. “but my advisers are honest and will do whatever they can and must to weed out the liars and Baelishes of the world.” The use of that term surprised Sansa – she relished in Petyr's death even now.

The Queen rose to her feet, smiling down at them. “I should take my leave. Let the two of you talk and process this. I know this is all overwhelming – so please, take as long as you need. I will be in the Throne Room should anything need clarification.” She swept from the room, her guards trailing behind.

Sansa climbed atop Jon's lap and buried her face in his neck as they both gently sobbed into each others arms. The emotions boiled over for husband and wife both – relief, sadness, anxiety. All of it was almost too much to bear alone.

But at least they had each other.

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys reflects on the news of Jon's parentage and other things.

Daenerys stood by one of the large windows in the throne room, having dismissed all of the servants and other officials. Drinking deeply from the goblet in her hand she stared out over the Blackwater; the wrecked hulks of Targaryen and Lannister ships alike being slowly but surely cleared from the bay. Lord Rowan had informed her that the main lanes of the harbour should be opened within two or so weeks; thus giving King's Landing the ability to harbour and shelter its fleets.

No matter how she tried to dismiss the thoughts her mind still went back to Jon Snow. Part of her was overjoyed by the revelation that he'd made; she finally knew she was not alone in the world. The Targaryen name would survive; if not with her, with him. She was still troubled by what she had forced him to do – not for the good of himself or his own Kingdom in the North but for House Targaryen.

_You must make the difficult decisions,_ Barristan Selmy had once told her. _What is good for the realm may not be what is good for the person._ This case was the true fulfillment of that idea; forcing him to marry Sansa Stark and sire a child would benefit the realm.

But the individuals would suffer; she knew Jon and Sansa had been raised as brother and sister, with Eddard Stark maintaining his deception right up until his death. To ask them in her name to break the bonds of family and enter the bonds of marriage – it was almost madness in her eyes.

_And what about my own feelings?_ She had fallen for Jon Snow – and now that it was revealed he was her nephew, her thoughts had not changed. They had not been raised as family – and he resembled his mother Lyanna Stark far more then he resembled Rhaegar. _It could still work..._

But she was barren; even if she were to swallow her reluctance and marry him she would not have any children to show for it and the Targaryen name would die with them. At least this way Sansa would be able to give her an heir.

Daenerys inhaled softly. The dynamic of the revelation had shaken her – the fact that Ned Stark had given up his honor to protect a child he did not know; a child of the house that killed most of his family was something no one expected. She knew of his fate when he came to King's Landing; losing his head while keeping his honour.

She'd written a decree to have the masons construct a statue of him in the Red Keep's courtyard. It was the least she could do for a man who had unknowingly saved her bloodline.

* * *

“Well, today has been a day full of surprises.” came a voice behind her. She knew at once it was Tyrion.

“Did I do the right thing?” she asked him. Tyrion had informed her that he would annul his marriage to Sansa at once – given that the pair were married against their will – which would allow Jon to marry her in the eyes of the Seven.

“The right thing is sometimes not the same as the correct thing.” was his answer.

“To be a ruler is to not just be loved. I know that much, at least.” she quipped, turning about to face him. “If we want my reign to not just be a one person dynasty I must have an heir.”

“But of course.” he said, smiling towards her. “I just hope Sansa can forgive us; the poor girl's already been forcibly wed to monsters before. Me, betrothed to Joffrey, and Ramsay Bolton.”

“Jon's different.” she interrupted, her mind swimming with emotion. “I...I know he is.”

“You wanted him for yourself.” he said.

“What do you want me to say, Tyrion? Of course I did. He is strong, wise, attractive – and just. And now I find out he is my blood. My nephew; Rhaegar's secret revealed. I know my family married brother to sister and so forth but where did that get us?” Daenerys was convinced that the incestuous practices of the old Targaryens needed to change; that was what lead her own father to insanity.

“Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name.” Tyrion waddled up and leaned up against the wall.

“I can't have children either.” she said, looking down to the floor. “so what good would I be as a wife? I could give him happiness, perhaps – but our line would die out. With him marrying Sansa we won't have to worry about that.”

“Just so. Anyway I thought perhaps you could use a breather from this.” he nodded, rifling through his coat and pulling out a piece of paper. “Most of the fleet is assembled for the future attack on Oldtown. I do believe we should start planning for the assault right away.”

Daenerys nodded. Taking Oldtown from Euron Greyjoy would be the best way to keep her mind from wandering into dangerous territory – more so then it already was. “Call the Small Council together. And have Jon and Sansa – er, Lady Stark – join us. I want all options on the table for this.”

Looking out to the mid-day sun she sighed. Her thoughts turned to the brother she had never met; Jon's father that he never knew. What would Rhaegar say about all of this? Would he be proud of the man Jon had become? Would he be proud of the ruler Daenerys was becoming?

_I can't dwell on the what ifs,_ she knew as she stepped away from the window.

* * *

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Damphair returns to Oldtown. Euron plots and reminds the audience why he's nuts.

The streets of Oldtown were full to bursting with ironborn warriors and sailors milling about; some were getting drunk in the many shanty taverns that had sprouted up while others played the finger dance in the open streets. The terrified citizens of the city were here and there as well, many of them labouring on the various projects Euron had begun.

Aeron saw barricades made of spiked bronze, pit traps with gore-tipped spears inside and various other heavily fortified buildings perfect for defending a siege. Ignoring them all he continued to walk through the streets, taking in the scenes before him. A few of the Drowned Men made the rounds, leading processions or ceremonies with their driftwood cudgels – but there were very few of his kind here.

_It does not bode well for our people's future_. Euron was a godless heathen; and no godless man may sit the Salt Throne. But who would listen in a den of blasphemies?

_No matter,_ thought Aeron as he strolled over one of the cobblestone bridges. _I will make them listen._ The Old Way was important to his people; Euron's blatant disregard for that way would not win him allies among the devout. And there had to be those here who still held to the Drowned God as much as he.

Pushing his way through a gaggle of warriors he tried to listen on their snippets of conversation.

“...still can't raid up the Mander.”

“What is this? We're not fucking peacekeepers! We should be out on the open sea.”

“...Botley got sent to the tower in irons, I hear. The King's up to something.”

* * *

 

“Hear me!” he boomed, stepping up onto a rickety chair in front of the assembled. “You all know mine face!” Aeron shouted, pulling his hood down. A murmur of recognition went through the crowd.

“We are ironborn. Our blood is the sea. But yet here we sit; supping in the green-lands while our so called King plans some grand destiny. I say what destiny does Euron Greyjoy have for us, if not our place in the sea?”

A few scattered grunts of agreement went up as he continued. “No godless man may sit the Salt Throne. That is our Way – a way many of our brothers and sisters have forgotten. But not I; not Aeron Damphair. Euron Greyjoy is a godless man; I name him heathen.”

That got the attention of the crowd; many of them began clamoring; some agreed while others tried to shout him down. “Would a devout man of God deny our people the path we have followed for thousands of years? Would a devout man cast off our traditions of drowning and the reverence of the tides in favor of green fire?”

“Aye!” shouted a majority of the crowd as new faces began to trickle in.

“Would a devout man take up the ancient Valyrian blasphemies and proclaim THEM the way to rule over our people? I say no devout man would do any of those things.” he bellowed, raising his hands to the sky.

“The King'll hear about this!” shouted an angry voice from the back of the crowd. _Let him_ , Aeron thought. _Let him know that the devout people of the Iron Islands come for him._

“Let him! Let him hear the truth as it should be told: that he is a godless man. And no true Drowned Man will recognize his authority. I reject him – and so should you, my brothers.”

As the crowd cheered Aeron raised his hands again, hushing them. “Go and spread this message of defiance around the city! Tell all true men of salt and stone to take heart. The Damphair is among you.” he said as he hopped down from the chair.

The crowd began to cheer and chant his name as they began to scatter through the streets.

He disappeared into the crowd and began to work his way back towards the main section of the city. It had been a risky decision to expose himself like this – but he needed the people to know that their way of life was threatened, and God willing the devout among the crowd would take up his message.

* * *

 Euron tapped his fingers on the desk, grinning towards Lucas. “You're sure?”

“Aye, m'lord.” Codd responded, shifting uneasily where he stood. “Said they saw the Damphair preaching in the city. Thing is, people said they saw him in a dozen places.”

_Oh dear Aeron_ , he mused. _I'm so glad you've come back._ “I don't think my dear brother learned how to create duplicates of himself.” Euron quipped. “If he did then, well – he's got the warlocks of Qarth on the run for their money.”

“Thing is we can't pinpoint him. All the Drowned Men look so similar.” Lucas shrugged.

“Then round up these Drowned Men,” Daario Naharis interjected, chuckling as he did so. That earned him a reproachful glare from the Codd.

“Keep yer fucking trap shut about our God, worm.” he snarled. “else I carve out yer tongue and eat it.”

“Now now gentlemen, please.” Euron raised his hand. “let's not kill each other just yet. Lucas, go bring Ironspike here from the lower levels if you'd so kindly.”

“Yes, m'lord.” Codd glared towards Daario once more before he bowed and left the room.

* * *

As he did so, Euron turned to the mercenary and shrugged.

“I'd agree with you on that one. Rounding them up, I mean.” he said, grinning. “but if I were to do that my people would tear me apart before I could react. The ironborn are quite devout, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“You don't seem the type.” Daario added, casually picking his fingernails with his dagger.

“I just happen to think religion is overrated.” he chuckled. “Now, I do have a little job for you and your Second Sons.”

“That's what we're here for.” Daario offered a mock salute.

_No, you're here because you saw the winds of change coming and you wanted to avoid being blown away._ Truth be told, Euron couldn't blame Naharis for wanting to change sides; if he'd been a spurned lover of the Dragon Queen he would probably want to get some revenge on her too.

“Worm your way through the cities. Go right down into the slums if you have to. Find any Drowned Men preaching against me – using Damphair's slogans, kill them.”

“You just said you couldn't round them up. Now you want them dead?” Daario asked, raising a brow.

Euron merely offered a small smile. “I can't round them up. By that I mean the ironborn can't round them up. I never said anything about the Second Sons not being able to act against these...oh, shall we say, malcontents.”

Laughing, the mercenary slipped his dagger into its sheath. “I like that! Anything specific you want done other then death? Send a message, maybe?”

Euron shoved his feet onto the desk and shook his head. “Nope. Just kill enough of these traitors to inspire some panic. I want Aeron to be afraid to speak out. Killing some of his “beloved” brothers will do the trick nicely.”

* * *

As Daario left the room Euron let out a contented sigh. Things were coming together nicely; it was a pleasant surprise to hear that his dear Aeron had come back to try and raise the army against him. Of course, those who did cling to the Drowned God as fanatically as his brother would rise against him; those that did would be dealt with in the best way possible – burned alive slowly with wildfire.

In truth the constant double talk and needless false devotion to the Drowned God was starting to wear him down. The fact his people had been hoodwinked for so long by an obviously false – and dead – religion was almost insulting. The great ironborn, taken in by the crashing of waves. Still it would not be long until such time that religion would be a thing of the past.

_They will recognize me for the god I am_.

A sinister grin formed on his face as the images of his domination raced through his mind's eye. Great statues of Euron Greyjoy, towering over the tallest of the world's structures. Massive ships crewed by devout sailors who sang his praises every night and every morning.

A world-spanning empire the likes of which Valyria had never seen. _That was their flaw,_ he knew now. They had failed to unlock the secrets of the diamond – if they had then the Freehold would never have been destroyed.

Sailing through the former peninsula was the best thing that he had ever done. Everything he saw and did there – all of the wonders that still waited beyond the smoking craters and gaping holes in the earth – allowed the truth to be revealed. And what a truth it was; glorious. Prevalent. Mighty.

Sweet Aeron would beg for mercy before the end of the year.

* * *

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa deal with their stress and emotions. Daenerys plans an attack on Oldtown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT IN THE FIRST BIT TURN BACK NOW IF YA DONT LIKE IT

The bed in Jon's chambers creaked and bounced violently, the wood and silken mattress jumping up and down slightly as the two lovers continued their passionate tryst.

Sansa was on top, riding Jon as fast as she could. He'd never engaged in such an intense romp with her before – but given the news that they had to endure from Daenerys it was understandable. His hands sat on her hips as she continued bouncing on his cock, her walls clenching for her third orgasm in as many minutes.

A cry of passion escaped her lips as she came, her body dripping with sweat. Her hair was a mess; just the way he liked it. As he continued her assault on his cock Jon bit down on his tongue to keep from letting out any reaction – the truth was that this kind of sex was perhaps the best he'd had. They did everything to keep themselves occupied after the news of Daenerys's demands had been announced – and this was perhaps the only activity that worked best for both.

Jon felt the buildup of his own orgasm coming; his hands squeezed Sansa's fast moving hips as hard as they could. She showed no reaction to the pressure on her body, her eyes gazing down at him. Jon could see the tear stains on her cheeks even now as she shuddered, her body twitching at every bounce.

Finally he could hold it no longer and spilled inside of her, his cock releasing its orgasm causing his own body to shudder. Sansa collapsed onto him as he finished, both of them panting and breathing heavily.

“Jon...” she whispered, leaning her head onto his neck. His hands brushed her hair gently as she began to whimper. “Why us?”

“I don't...I don't know, sweetling.” he answered with a sigh, his own eyes growing moist. The most devastating thing for any parent is to lose a child; but in their case they would know their child for as many years as they were allowed only to lose them after. After raising him or her, after loving them and giving them all of the lessons they could impart.

It was not fair. _I never should have made that deal with her._ But Jon knew that he had no choice given the circumstances he'd faced at the time.

“It seems like the gods want us punished.” she panted as Jon wiped her cheek with a thumb. “taking our family, our friends – and now our child.”

“We...we'll still have our babe, Sansa...she can't take that from us.” Jon whispered, unable to stop the tears flowing from his own eyes. “Maybe...maybe when Daenerys is gone we'll have had a second child. They can take over as ruler in the North and we can both...both go South with him or her.”

Sansa nodded, looking up towards him. “I know. This is...better than anything we could have asked for, but even still...it's cruel. Cruel to raise our child only to send them away.”

“At least we have each other.” Jon tried to smile, planting a gentle kiss on her shoulder. They had each other since shortly after the battle. The day that they gave into passion and became illicit lovers would be a day forever burned into his memory. “No one...will take you from me, Sansa.”

“I just wish there was another way.” she said, sighing. “a way that didn't involve separating our family.”

Jon ran a hand over Sansa's stomach, which now had a small but visible bump. He thought of who their son or daughter might become; would they be a poet, enjoying song and verse? Would they be a fighter like him, enjoying the thrill of battle? Or would they be like their mother and enjoy the art of crafting; sewing, weaving and the like?

One thing was certain; their son or daughter would become a ruler.

Her hand went to his own and she smiled even as her eyes ran with fresh tears. “No matter what, this child will be ours. Now and forever.” she whispered, kissing him softly.

“Now and forever.” Jon nodded, wiping his eyes. A knock at the door interrupted their tender moment.

“YES?!” Jon shouted, eyes widening in panic.

“Excuse me Lord Snow,” came the servant's voice. “But the Queen has called a meeting of the Small Council and is requesting you and the Lady Sansa join her.”

“We'll be down shortly!” he called, flying out of the bed and searching for his clothes. Sansa did the same, throwing on her gown and small-clothes after a hasty search. As they finished dressing he pulled Sansa to him.

“Be strong, my love. We are together in this.” he whispered as she nodded, wrapping her arm around his.

* * *

The mood in the chamber was somber as Jon and Sansa entered; Laid out before them were several large maps of the Reach with wooden markers indicating their own forces; the dragon markers were Daenerys's while the squid markers represented Euron.

At the table was Daenerys, who sat at its head looking as regal as ever. Tyrion, at her side as Hand. Lord Varys, Jorah Mormont, Mathis Rowan and Grey Worm rounded out the council. There were two empty seats – reserved for the King and Queen in the North, which they both took.

“Apologies for our lateness, my lords – Your Grace.” Sansa smiled, gently placing her hands on the table. “The King and I were busy...discussing the coming nuptials.”

“Of course, Sansa. I understand.” Daenerys smiled at her. “Now, where were we?”

Mormont rose to his feet, pointing to a set of wooden dragon figures. “Our forces can blockade the gates of Oldtown but that blockade is useless if the ironborn have the sea access. We would need to punch a hole in their defenses and take the harbor if we're to make any difference on land.”

“We can do that,” came Lord Rowan's firm voice. “the Reach navy can sail in through the Mander and engage the Greyjoy fleet. We can draw some of his ships away and narrow his flanks here.” he pointed to another section of map.

“That would be stupid,” Tyrion exclaimed, sighing loudly. “because any effort to draw away his fleet would only end in our forces becoming dragon food.”

“We don't know that.” Rowan said, shaking his head. “He might keep the beast back for a last line of defence only if he's in danger.”

“Please, Lord Rowan.” Varys tittered, nodding towards Tyrion. “we have seen Euron's tactics at work before. He will rain death upon our boats before they can even reach the harbour's waterline. He is not wont to defend.”

The debates about sea attacks continued unabated; the droning and arguments making Jon's head hurt. Beside him Sansa grasped his hand for support. “I don't know why I'm even here.” he said suddenly, causing all in attendance to gaze at him. “the only ones here are myself and Sansa. I didn't bring the Northern army with me.”

Daenerys laughed. “King Snow, you and I are the dragon riders here. Rhaegal – no matter what I do, I cannot get him to respond to me as he does you. I need your help in this regard.”

“Euron has the dragon-horn, Your Grace.” Sansa said, her eyes darting back and forth with alarm. “If you go into Oldtown with the dragons there's no guarantee that they will remain loyal to you.”

“Ser Tarly?” Tyrion called as the door to the chamber opened, revealing Sam – dressed all in black as he last was. He was carrying a rather old, tattered book and smiling softly.

“Sam!” Jon leaped from his chair and embraced his brother in a hug. Sam squeaked in surprise and nearly dropped the book, but returned Jon's hug none the less.

“Jon! It's good to see you. Erm, I mean..Your Grace.” he added, smiling nervously. “I'm sorry I didn't...didn't become a maester.”

“Sam, there's no Wall anymore.” Jon laughed, shrugging. “I don't think we need a maester somewhere that doesn't exist.”

* * *

“I apologize for interrupting your reunion, gentlemen – but we do need to move on.” Daenerys had risen to her feet. Jon nodded and returned to his seat. “Now, Ser Tarly – you had found something of interest to us?”

“Ah, erm, yes.” Sam said, placing the book down on the table. “This book goes into detail about ancient Valyrian artifacts. Some that were even known to the world before the Doom. Anyway – it talks about how the horn can only control ONE dragon at a time. If there are more then one dragon in range of it's sound – the largest of the brood is affected the most.”

“Which means if I bring Drogon..” Daenerys sighed.

“...then he would be bound to Euron. Or whoever “mastered” the horn. We still don't know how the ironborn managed to even master it..” Sam admitted, rubbing his shoulder uncomfortably. “but even if only the largest of the brood is controlled the others will still be at least temporarily affected, sadly.”

“How so?” she asked, turning her head to face him.

“Well, we can only guess at this point. Anything from disobeying commands to...well, tossing the riders from their back.” Sam sighed, eyes unable to meet the Queen's own.

“Then we can't bring dragons to Oldtown.” Tyrion said firmly.

“Without the dragons, what hope do we have against Euron and Viserion?” Jon asked, turning to face the Hand.

“The Unsullied can defeat dragons. We will bring down this Euu-Ron and free the Queen's beast.” Grey Worm stated, voice firm and unflinching.

The council began to discuss more military matters; despite his best efforts to listen Jon found his mind wandering once again. He thought of Sansa at his side; the pain and agony the pair were now sharing regarding their unborn child.

Even so, he should be grateful; at least, part of him thought so. Daenerys could have taken the child at birth or demanded Jon wed her. His mind snaked back to Maester Aemon and his advice; one of the last things that he was told before his death.

“ _Kill the boy, and let the man be born.”_ He knew that the option that the Queen had given them was the best one – not for him or Sansa, to be sure but the realm. The realm would need a strong bloodline to continue on if the Targaryens were to survive and potentially rebuild their dynasty.

* * *

“...then it is decided. Lord Rowan and Yara will take our fleet up the Mander and engage Euron's ships just outside the harbor. At the same time Jon and Grey Worm will lead a single ship through the blockade and secure a landing point; while there, try and turn their siege weapons against Viserion should he make an appearance.” Daenerys rose from her chair, nodding to the assembled.

Jon blinked in surprise. “Wha – me? Why?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Because you are one of the best fighters in the realm, King Jon – that is why.” she smirked at him.

“We will not fail you Khaleesi.” Grey Worm saluted respectfully.

“I...I have to protest.” Sansa said, her gaze going to Jon. “if we are to wed is it not dangerous to...to send the King off to battle? If anything happens to him I will not be able to get with child -”

“Do you think I would risk Jon's life, Lady Sansa?” Daenerys shook her head. “I have seen him in combat. He will be just the man we need to break the ironborn lines. At the same time, Jorah and I will lead our ground forces in the attack on the gates.”

Mormont smiled. “I look forward to seeing battle once again.”

* * *

As the room emptied out Jon gingerly went to his feet, Sansa still clutching tightly to his hand. Sam had walked over to stand with them at the door. “Sam, this is Sansa Stark – my soon to be wife. Sansa, this is Samwell Tarly – one of my brothers in the Night's Watch.”

“Lady Sansa, it is an honor.” Sam smiled as Sansa gently hugged him. “J..Jon – erm, I mean the King always spoke fondly of his family. Cousins, rather.”

“It's alright, Sam.” she grinned, shrugging. “I know this whole situation is strange to you. Imagine how we feel.”

“Tell me about it.” Jon added with a laugh.

“Gilly sends her regards. She would have come to meet you but she's busy with little Sam and teaching Gendry.” Sam said quietly.

“Who's Gendry?” Jon asked, raising a brow.

“Robert Baratheon's bastard son. He has been legitimized as a Baratheon by royal edict. The Queen thinks it will help win the support of the Stormlands to her permanent reign. It's a good idea, really.” he smiled. “I have been tutoring him on reading and writing; he was a poor blacksmith from Flea Bottom before he was raised up.”

“We will have to meet him Jon,” Sansa said, smiling towards him. “he seems like the two of you would have a lot in common.”

“Oh, sure. Just introduce me to all the bastards around.” Jon laughed, shrugging softly.

“Well, I should..I should get back. It was good to see you again Jon – truly.” Sam offered a slight bow as he shuffled his way out of the chamber.

Jon felt himself waver a bit, his legs wobbling as a headache came over him. Sansa clutched his side tightly, a look of concern on his face. “Jon. Are you alright? Should I get a maester?”

“N-no. I'm alright. Just...stress. I need...need to lay down.” he sighed, rubbing his forehead softly.

“Come on then. We'll get some sleep together.” she smiled, kissing him gently on the cheek and leading him out of the room, back towards their chambers.

* * *

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron acts and does evil.

Euron's dais in the main square of Oldtown was high in the air, overlooking the crowds that had gathered – forcefully, at his command – to witness the gaggle of executions that he had planned. A good and firm message must be sent to those within his kingdom; ironborn and non-ironborn alike. While the Second Sons had done their role, assassinating at least a half-dozen of the Drowned Men who had begun preaching against his rule there were still many that were rallying to the Damphair's teachings.

At his side stood Ironspike – named for the jagged iron pieces he had driven into various parts of his body - who had become Euron's chief disciple; the man would be instrumental in spreading the new faith of the God-King that would rule the known world. Until that time however, he was useful as chief torturer and executioner.

Euron nodded. “Bring out the next one.”

As the thralls entered the square they carried a large pole of steel which they hastily erected in the middle of the spectacle. To that pole was strapped a man, garbed in ripped noble's clothing. This was Marcus Botley – one of the captains of the Iron Fleet. Botley had been a loyal supporter of his after the Kingsmoot but had turned on Euron once he was denied the chance to raid and pillage past Oldtown. And now the words of Aeron had seeped into his thinking too; he'd been sending messages to the Iron Islands encouraging uprisings.

_And for that, he has to pay._ Around the center of the square a great pit had been created; mostly by building a great wall around the edges; with enough seats and railings for people to witness. Euron wanted his subjects to see what happened to those who defied his order.

Euron got to his feet and raised a hand as the square fell into a hushed silence. “Marcus Botley,” he announced, pointing down to the man in the pit, “you have been found guilty of high crimes against the rightful King of the Iron Islands. The sentence for such is death. Do you have any final words?”

Even from his dais Euron watched as the man spat. “No godless man may sit the Salt Throne! Remember that, Greyjoy. Remember it!”

As he sat back down Euron gestured with his head as Ironspike stepped down into the pit. The man grasped a jar of green liquid and poured it onto one of Botley's arms. As quickly as the liquid was applied to his arm it roared to life, engulfing the limb in a savage green glow.

Botley howled in agony, thrashing – as best he could being chained down – in a futile effort to extinguish the blaze. It was no use; wildfire could not be put out through any means. It had to burn itself out – and it would only do so when the arm was consumed.

The roasting smell of cooked flesh filled the square; Euron had to admit to almost having his mouth water. He watched as the skin, muscle, sinew and bone was consumed in flame, charred blackened bits of Botley's former limb falling to the ground. The fire eventually went out; Botley wore no clothes to prevent the flames from spreading.

Ironspike slapped him across the face; the man slumping painfully on the pillar. He moaned weakly as he looked to his missing arm. The executioner then repeated the process with his remaining arm and legs, which burned away in a searing fire of screams and charred skin.

By the time his legs had been burned away Botley was dead. Euron smiled grimly and watched as Ironspike burned up the rest of his body, the pillar being quickly broken down and taken away by the waiting thralls.

* * *

The next execution would be far more fun. It was one that Euron had been looking forward to testing for a long time. “Bring out the Stone Men!” he shouted. The Stone Men – those unfortunates almost fully consumed by greyscale – often lived in colonies on the edges of the former Valyrian peninsula, making capturing them easy for Euron and the _Silence._ The cage was carefully pulled by a team of thralls, the half dozen figures inside wailing and thrashing about.

As the thralls moved it into position one of them unlatched the lock on the door before they scattered back into the stands, narrowly avoiding as the Stone Men ran out, howling and screaming as they clawed at the sides of the pit. Of course they could go nowhere; a team of archers were trained on them at all times to ensure no greyscale was spread.

These Stone Men were almost walking skeletons; Euron had fed them nothing but water for a week in preparation for this event. Over the edge of the pit a plank was extended as thralls secured it into place.

“Bring them out!” Ironspike called as he stood scowling by the plank. Out of the crowd came a half-dozen Drowned Men, their irons clanging with every step. These six had been spared – Euron wanted some of them alive – so they could suffer an even worse fate than to be burnt alive with wildfire.

As they reached the edge of the pit the men's fetters were removed. Ironspike nodded to Euron on his dais, who rose to his feet.

“These Drowned Men have been found guilty of blasphemy against the Drowned God and the Salt Throne. They have denied the authority of their King and as such spit in the face of our God. For that there is only one ultimate, terrible price to be paid.” Sitting back in his throne Euron nodded as a wave of spearmen advanced towards the condemned, and one by one they walked to the plank and were forced into the pit.

As the first man landed in the pit the Stone Men were upon him, howling and screaming as they tore into his flesh with their grey skin, the screams of the priest being drowned out by their messy and oftentimes desperate chewing. Horrified gasps and groans of agony could be heard from the crowd as a limb was torn loose from the body, one of the Stone Men biting and chomping into it feverishly.

As the last of the Drowned Men went into the pit – and met the jaws of the starving – Euron allowed himself a slight laugh.

_Let them go to their God in pieces._

* * *

Theon heard the screams from his tower cell in the remains of the Citadel. Euron was putting on a show; executing those who had wronged him somehow. He wondered when his pain would end; having been subjected to years of abuse at the hands of Ramsay Bolton was bad enough, having pushed him to the edge and back; given his service as Reek.

But Euron was a different monster entirely. Theon's body ached from the constant torture that his uncle inflicted upon him – the burns on his arms and legs were black and blistering, the puncture wounds on his chest were almost dangerously close to infection – before his uncle had the maesters pour boiling wine to cure them – and his back was almost fully wrapped in a dirty and fly-stained bandage after the flaying.

The Valyrian Steel armor his uncle used – and tested on him – was something he had never seen before or would see after. If Ramsay had seen it he would have fallen on his knees and begged Euron for mercy; it was not so much an armor set as it was a mobile torture device; with Theon having taken the brunt of the cuts, flayings, burning and other violations as they came.

Still he held out.

As he rolled around painfully on the sheets he called his bed Theon knew that King's Landing was in the hands of Daenerys and her forces; Euron had savaged him that day, the resulting flaying of his back having come from the miniature knives embedded in the gauntlets of the armor. So he knew at least the sacrifices of his men was not in vain – they were feasting in the halls of the Drowned God even now.

He would have to wait for his chance, though; for some cruel reason his body still drew breath. If he could hold out long enough to see Euron's reign undone then he could die happy. And if by some chance he lived after his uncle was deposed, what then? Would he return to the Iron Islands a hero, or would he still be considered a green-lander unworthy of the Greyjoy name?

He could never go back North; Jon had made that abundantly clear. Hearing that Rickon had met his end at Ramsay's arrows grieved him even now; he'd shed tears for the boy the night after being told. No one deserved to be subjected to that man's whims.

Jon was King in the North now; he was celebrated even by some in Oldtown; veteran raiders who admired his fighting spirit. A worthy foe for a green-lander, they called him. But at least Theon had rectified his many mistakes in life – the day he helped Sansa escape Winterfell was the day that he'd shed Reek and been reborn as Theon Greyjoy; at least a partial shade of the boy he once was.

His uncle for all of his tortures was a base man; even with the armour set, he was still a brute masquerading as a ruler. When the Targaryen forces break down the gates of the city he would flee as a coward – running and hiding atop his stolen dragon to avoid his own death.

It would be then that the ironborn who followed him would realize that the man was not worth following and with luck, they would rally behind Yara – a true leader. A true reaver; a true Queen. She would carry on the Greyjoy line; her sons would bring the Iron Islands to their zenith as an independent kingdom to rival anything before or after.

Theon knew he would not live to see it. But he smiled even so; because his sacrifice may have given Yara the chance to accomplish that vision.

* * *

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dreams of his reunion with Arya.

When Jon slept, he dreamed of home.

He was back in Winterfell, the day of Arya's return. Arya – the only one of his siblings that Jon had ever considered closest to him. She had always been there to stand up for him when people had insulted and mocked him for being “the bastard”. She had even stood up to her mother when she had made snide comments about Jon in her presence. They had spent the better part of their childhood together – growing up and playing and pranking.

He remembered almost immediately after her return; just before they had gone to the Great Hall. Sansa had run off to the kitchens to get a feast prepared; despite Arya's objections. The two of them had gone to the godswood – a place Jon had always enjoyed seeing, especially in the winter. He remembered how their father – his uncle, in truth – could always be found there, sitting among the rocks and foliage as he cleaned the family's ancestral Valyrian blade Ice.

The wood was empty now save for the gentle sobs of the reunited siblings. Jon had embraced her in a hug once more when they'd entered the grove. He had missed her so much it hurt; no one had seen Arya since their father's execution in King's Landing – many thought her dead, murdered by some street urchin and rotting in a gutter somewhere.

She had grown up, though; taller, with more muscle and meat on her body. She had also developed a woman's figure – despite her attempts to hide it with the padded northern clothing. But Jon cared little about how she looked; only that she was here. Alive.

She ran her hands over his face, the tears flowing gently from her eyes. “I never thought I'd see you again,” she sobbed into his neck, her hands tightening like a vice around his back.

“Now you know how I feel...” he replied, whispering back as he struggled with his own emotions. “The last I heard you were dead...along with everyone else in that shit pile called King's Landing.”

Arya had laughed, shaking her head. “No,” she answered softly. “it didn't kill me. Only made me stronger.”

“You were always strong, little sister.” Jon smiled.

Yet her face had seemed troubled through all of her tears. “Arya,” Jon had asked her. “are you alright?”

She had hung her head in shame. “I've done things. Things that...that I know you or Sansa wouldn't approve of.”

He cared nothing for that; all of them had done things that they needed to in order to survive. “I don't care about that, Arya. You're here. Alive. That's what I'm concerned with.”

* * *

She had told him about her travels to Braavos; her training in the House of Black and White. How she had killed in the name of the Many-Faced God and left her old self behind. She had even been the one responsible for Walder Frey's death.

“I cooked his sons into a pie and served it to him.” she had said, a smirk forming on her face.

“That's...well, creative.” Jon had replied, chuckling ever so grimly.

“I don't want you to think less of me, Jon. All the time...every chance I got I thought of you. Up on the Wall, damned to a lonely life of servitude because you were a bastard.” Arya sighed, her voice cracking.

“I could never, ever think any less of you.” Jon smiled, running a hand through her hair. That put her at ease and she wrapped her arms around him once more.

“And you? On my way here I heard so much about you – the King in the North! The living echo of Ned Stark. Father would be so proud of you, Jon.” she smiled, kissing his cheek roughly. “You're a legend now, just as you deserve.”

“I don't feel like one.” he had admitted. He explained to her about his death at the hands of his Sworn Brothers – not expecting her to believe it. “It was a Red Priest named Melisandre.” he tried to say, only for Arya's eyes to go wide.

“I know her. I met her in the Riverlands.” she said, her voice growing strangely dark. “I never liked her the moment I laid eyes on her. But – I know all about red priests. I met one too. Saw what they could do.”

Jon slumped against the rock their father used to sit against; now frozen over with snow. Arya joined him, sitting at his side and grasping his hand.

“It should be Sansa. She got us here. Not me.” Jon smiled sadly. He always felt as though he'd usurped her title – given she was Ned Stark's trueborn daughter.

“It should be YOU!” Arya had shouted, grinning at him as her words echoed through the grove. “You deserve this. All of it, Jon. The things I heard on my way here – everything you endured. The trials, the battle; the fact you put yourself on the line for our family. Not even mother could deny you that.”

“Oh I don't know Arya,” Jon had laughed. “Your mother would be screaming at me now if she could see this. And besides, Sansa brought the Knights of the Vale – we'd have been slaughtered if not for that.”

“Jon...” Arya raised a hand, shushing him. “you've always been a good man. A fighter – someone who wanted to prove himself. You've done that, especially now. The North loves you – and Sansa too, I suppose.”

“I just wish I could have saved Rickon. He was right in front of me, Arya.” he mumbled, wiping at his eyes as fresh tears began to form. “I was right...there.”

“You did what you could Jon. I know that.” she smiled, patting his shoulder ever so gently. “I know Rickon would feel the same if he were here now.” She rose to her feet, offering Jon a hand. “Come on. Let's go get Sansa and go visit the crypts. As a family.”

“...As a family.” Jon nodded.

* * *

“as family...” Jon mumbled, thrashing about on the bed. Beside him Sansa grasped his chest tightly, shaking him.

“Jon. Jon, it's just a dream. You're alright.” she murmured, kissing him gently on the neck.

Jon's eyes shot open and he let out a gasp, as though he couldn't breathe. “Wh – what? I was...dreaming. Back in the godswood with Arya.”

Sansa smiled, running her hand up his chest. “It's alright, Jon. You're here, with me in our chambers at King's Landing. No one can hurt you now. And Arya is safe in Winterfell; she'll be alright. I know she will.”

He smiled, feeling embarrassed at his actions. “Sorry, Sansa. Just...remembering the day she came home.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “I remember. It's so good to have her back – I know the two of you are close. But – and call me naughty, I remember especially our little naughty break in the store room that night. Don't you?” she giggled, causing Jon to blush.

“We were so bad...” he agreed, shrugging.

“Were? I think we still are...” she moaned, climbing on top of him.

* * *

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Damphair makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to hit a rut at this point guys. May get to the end game within the next few chapters. Sorry. :(

The gruesome executions of some of his fellow priests had only spurred Aeron to work harder at his ministrations. The crowds he attracted were growing ever larger by the day; dissatisfied raiders, sailors and even thralls from Oldtown's populace rallied to his cries, as simple as they were.

No godless man shall sit the Salt Throne. But it was not enough to merely inspire his people to resist; they actively had to resist if there was to be any hope of dethroning Euron. His new alliance with the mercenary company known as the Second Sons had resulted in gruesome murders of those Drowned Men not loyal to him; a dozen more of the Damphair's comrades had their throats slit since he arrived.

 _Euron may kill us all_ , he mused. _But he will not stop the message._

Ships began to disobey orders. New defenses were built missing nails or boards in key sections. Weapons were made with inferior quality ores then before. And even new ships were built with shoddy effort – a blasphemy among the ironborn but a sad necessity, given the current nature of their cause. And no matter how hard Euron and his loyalists came down on the dissenters it only made for more to join them.

From the wildfire burnings to the Stone Men more and more reavers and other servants of the God flocked to Aeron's message. It seemed as if Euron did not care about his own reputation among his people; as if he did not care about his people, period. The priest knew that he was feverishly researching anything that he could find on the ancient Valyrian Freehold, but did not know why. Euron was always obsessed with that fallen empire and he needed to try and find out what for.

It was here that he made his way up into the Citadel, the home of the green-land maesters. The terrified chain-wearers ran to and fro, scrambling to obey the orders of their ironborn jailers; Euron had decreed that the maesters would continue to exist and serve the ironborn empire that he was building. Aeron was dressed in the typical garb of a Drowned Man, and no one gave him pause; either they did not recognize him or better still, they did but said nothing.

As he ascended the winding stairs of the massive structure Aeron saw bodies hanging all around the outside walls. They were blackened and charred – victims of the wildfire Euron had grown to love. Most of them were likely citizens of Oldtown who resisted his rule in more active ways than to preach; a mistake. This would only lead to more of his brother's unrestrained madness being inflicted upon them.

Turning off into a long hallway Aeron heard Euron's voice echoing from a room off to the right. Carefully working his way along the wall he paused to listen:

* * *

“...trying, ser. We haven't had much luck at deciphering the, erm, passages you gave us.” came the frightened voice of a young man; probably one of the maester novices.

“Worm!” growled a deeper, uglier voice; that was Lucas Codd, one of the more foul of Euron's supporters. “I'll have your tongue for this!”

“Relax, Lucas.” Euron's silky smooth tone. “now, you said you've combed the entire library for Valyrian texts, correct?”

“Yes, ser. The storeroom by your chamber has everything we know. These are just copies I”m working off of, by your command.” the frightened maester stammered.

“Then I'll have the originals brought to you. Maybe that will give you better luck, hmm? What about the lightning rods?” Euron asked, his voice growing a hint darker.

“Should be done within the week just as you expect, ser. Though again, there's no guarantee they might work...the Valyrian texts say one thing but anything could happen, given the little we know about them.” the novice shook so much his maester's chain jingled slightly.

_Lighting rods?_

“Oh, don't worry. They will work.” Euron laughed, the sounds of footsteps echoing through the hall – heading towards the door. Aeron quickly rushed down a side corridor, into one of the many reagent stores the maesters had, the overpowering scent of herbs and other fauna clogging his nose.

“Orders, Your Grace?” Lucas Codd grunted as the pair walked past the store room.

“Take another five of the maesters for wildfire burning. We need to motivate our dear friends to work faster. I can't wait any longer; we need those weather-control devices set up before Daenerys's fleet gets here.” Euron demanded, his voice growing loud and harsh.

“I don't mean to pry, but how do we know they'll work?” Codd said, his tone uneasy.

“Do you doubt me, Lucas?” Euron chuckled. “The artifacts I managed to...acquire..from Valyria have not let us down thus far, have they?”

Their laughter echoed down the hall as the footsteps faded. Aeron ground his teeth together, biting softly on his cheek. If Euron had the power to control the very weather itself, it could be a very bad sign for the green-land fleet of the Targaryen woman. Like it or not but she was the only real hope at stopping him that the Damphair had right now.

He would need every bit of the Drowned God's blessing if he was to survive the trials laid out before him. But he had been guided to Oldtown and he would not stop until he was able to secure open rebellion in the streets; righteous men of the sea rising up against a godless heathen.

_What is dead may never die. But rises again harder and stronger._

* * *

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Grey Worm talk on a boat. Jorah, Dany, Daario and Euron talk on horses.

The deck below him shifted slightly as the ship fell into line behind the rest of the fleet. Jon stared out towards the docks of the Blackwater, looking at the various throngs of people who had come to see the fleet off to battle. He saw her red hair, flowing gently in the wind – he smelled the sweetness of her kiss, lingering in his mouth. He felt the ebb of life from her stomach; their child that would be a part of him as it was even now.

Even though he was leaving Sansa once again Jon was content. This would be all that was needed; no more tricks, no more lies or deceptions. Once Oldtown was taken and out of the hands of Euron Greyjoy then he would be free to return North with her, and never set foot in the festering shit pile of King's Landing again – at least until his son or daughter had to travel back and rule.

The gentle sloshing of the water made Jon feel slightly uneasy, so he walked back to the middle of the ship where Grey Worm and his Unsullied stood, drilling with their spears and shields. He watched them; their elegant moves, unflinching gestures and almost rigid obedience. They were truly an impressive unit – something that Daenerys should consider herself lucky to have.

“Jon Snow,” Grey Worm called. “you have not seen the Unsullied in battle before.” The eunuch nodded to him, his face stony and expressionless – as it usually was.

“I can't say I have. This will be my first time.” he admitted.

Everyone had heard of the prowess of the Unsullied – and now he would get to see it first hand. He and Grey Worm were to take the ship and its compliment into the docks of Oldtown and capture it while the rest of the Targaryen fleet engaged the ironborn, drawing their attacks away long enough for them to breach land. They were to be the spearhead of the plan – and, hopefully after they had accomplished their mission more ships would follow.

“We hear stories of you, too.” Grey Worm nodded. “that you fight well with sword and shield.”

Jon shrugged. He'd taken a Targaryen shield from the hold and, much to his surprise found a Stark helmet that Daenerys had gifted to him. She claimed it was found in one of the armories in the Red Keep, so it must have been left over from when Ned Stark and his men were purged.

He felt like a warrior and not a king once again. “I don't play up my skills. I've made it this far, so I've got to be doing something right.”

“Your bond mate says you are.” the eunuch nodded.

Jon's thoughts went back to Sansa once again; they had married in the godswood of the Red Keep before Daenerys and her court – the third marriage they'd had in as many years. Jon had been forced to cloak her in the red and black dragon of Targaryen; the Queen had insisted on that much. Of course Sansa did not mind – she had told him beforehand that she would love him no matter what she was cloaked with – but it still bothered Jon. He was a Snow – not a Targaryen. Despite his heritage, his ancestry – all of it, he was and would always be a bastard of the North. He had no connection to Daenerys or her family.

They had almost no time to “celebrate” their marriage either; Daenerys and Mormont had departed on foot with a host of some seventy five thousand infantry the day after the wedding, headed for Oldtown; that was some weeks ago now and the fleet was just leaving the harbor as planned. If things went well then Euron would think himself in for a siege from the land, and free up his defences to attack the main host. If not – well, that's what Jon was here for.

“Of course Sansa does.” Jon chuckled. “she and I have...have been through a lot together.”

Grey Worm nodded. “Yet your bond is still strong. It is an impressive feat to be bonded together through trials and not ebb or waver even slightly.”

“I have my flaws. Just like everyone.” he answered, staring out over the variety of sails making up the fleet; the Greyjoy kraken, the Tyrell rose, Martell sun-spears and the dragon. “Are you nervous?”

Grey Worm blinked at him. “Unsullied do not fear. Death is merely the end of our service – nothing more.”

_I envy you,_ Jon thought wistfully. He had died – and knew the blackness that awaited him should he fall again. It was something he desperately wanted to avoid; the overwhelming feeling of the endless void was enough to drive a man to insanity. “I've been in a dozen or more battles. And yet I still fear.” he sighed.

The eunuch said nothing, merely blinking towards Jon as though he expected something. “You are not Unsullied.” he finally stated, his voice as flat as ever.

Jon laughed. “No, I've still got all my parts. I need them to give Daenerys the heir she wants.” he grinned towards the man, who did not laugh or even smile.

“We shall see how you fight upon our arrival, Jon Snow.” he added, turning back to continue instructing his troops.

_That you will, Grey Worm_.

Jon moved off, heading into the ship passing the various Unsullied or ironborn crewmen who were milling about below decks. Finding a bench in the small mess hall Jon hauled himself into it, sighing as he allowed his muscles to relax. It was not nerves – he ceased to feel nervous or queasy before a fight – but stress. He had a home to return to. A wife. A child.

The stakes were higher then ever for him and everyone around him. Every ironborn reaver or sailor, every Unsullied. Even the handful of Dothraki aboard the ship were expendable; they all knew that the harbor had to fall to Targaryen hands or the siege was over before it could begin.

The noise around him grew as more men trickled to the benches, laughing and drinking merrily. Jon ignored them all, leaning up against the wall and closing his eyes, the rhythmic motions of the open waters giving him a faint – but still present – sense of calm.

* * *

Euron always felt uneasy when sitting a horse. It had been so as a child – despite his many lessons – and it remained so even now. But he had an image to maintain, and so he gingerly lead the horse through the colossal gates of Oldtown towards the Targaryen front lines. Trailing him was Daario Naharis and a soldier carrying the Crow's Eye standard.

Daenerys Targaryen waited to meet them roughly halfway, sitting firm and confidently atop her white courser. Beside her was Jorah Mormont, his face glaring angrily towards Daario. The man's arm had been replaced up to the elbow with a bronze artificial arm – the result of greyscale, Euron had been told. But his focus was not on the northman or his arm but on the beauty of the Dragon Queen.

She was everything that he imagined her to be. Even sitting astride a horse, commanding a vast host against his city she was still an object of great desire to him. She would make an excellent wife – if Euron was interested in such a thing. But wives meant sharing power, and Euron was always more content to have things for himself.

As the trio rode up Euron offered a smile, his Valyrian armor glistening in the sun as the runes glowed over his body. “The Dragon Queen herself. At last we meet.” he bowed his head.

“I can't say we meet under the greatest of circumstances, Euron Greyjoy.” she answered, her voice steady and firm. “you stole one of my children from me.”

“I did.” he nodded, still grinning towards her. “but rest assured dear Viserion is a valuable asset in the building of my new kingdom. He is in good hands.”

“Give him back.” Mormont growled, his good hand cradling the hilt of his sword. “open your gates, and strike your banners – and the Queen MAY grant you a swift death. That offer is not open to you, Naharis.”

“Good to see you too, old boy.” the sellsword offered a lazy wave.

“I left you in charge of Meereen, Daario. To keep the peace while the people rebuilt. This is how you repay my trust?” Daenerys had turned her gaze to her former lover, a look of sadness upon her.

“You abandoned me in a shit-hole of a city.” he shot back, frowning. “after everything I did for you. I fought for you, bled for you – loved you.”

That made Mormont clutch the hilt tighter, his hand shaking as he glowered with rage.

“You know why I did it!” she spat. “damn it, I couldn't bring an Essosi sellsword to Westeros with me as my consort. Do you know how fast my reign would collapse if that were the case?”

Euron sat back, gazing at the feuding pair with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I hate to interrupt this touching reunion, but shall we get on with things? I see you've brought an army to my city.” he gestured out towards her force. “now, I don't know about you but I don't like that very much. Oldtown is mine; the seat of my kingdom and the place where my empire will be forged. I'll give you a chance, my queen – pull your troops out and we need not fight.”

“I see a man who is holed up inside a city, with no where to go. You may have a fleet of ships at your command, but where will you go? Sail away with your tail between your legs?” she grinned at him, nodding towards the gates. “Surrender Oldtown and I may yet show you mercy.”

“I would, but Daario and I have worked hard on its defence.” he snickered as Daario offered a curt nod. “He's told me everything about you, my dear lady – your strengths, weaknesses; even what you enjoy doing in bed.”

The sound of steel being drawn echoed around the participants as Mormont drew his blade. “Give me your leave, Your Grace. Let me kill these insolent bastards! Especially Naharis!” he growled, looking ready to strike.

“Jorah. No.” she held up a hand, looking to him. “We are here to discuss the siege, not do battle just yet.”

“Yes, that's right – the siege.” Euron replied, shifting in his saddle. “now, you can besiege Oldtown if you like. But you should know that I have an army of ruthless killers on my side. The Iron Islands stands behind me. I have siege weapons and materiel from the city that will make mince meat of your troops.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes. Behind her, the army she and Jorah had brought from King's Landing were already at work setting up siege towers and catapults; it would be ready to begin the assault on the outer walls within the hour.

Of course – this was all a diversionary tactic while her fleet assaults the harbour and, with luck takes it right from under Euron's nose.

“And what do you have, Greyjoy?” Jorah spat. “other then sellswords and ironborn, who we've defeated before. Or did you forget the rebellion your dear brother waged?”

“How could I, Mormont?” Euron smiled – he had been the one to lead the assault on Lannisport during the Greyjoy Rebellion; and he knew Jorah as being the second man through the walls at the Siege of Pyke. “Balon had the right idea, but he went about it the wrong way. Nor was he...daring enough to do what I have done. Recognize the armor, dear Queen? It hails from the same place as you.”

Euron's Valyrian armor continued to glow, the various runes lighting up as though at random. Daenerys and Jorah shared a worried glance.

“How did you -”

“It does not matter!” Euron beamed, cutting her question short. “But needless to say I was able to...obtain..many treasures from your destroyed homeland. You've already seen the power of the Dragonbinder first-hand; do not force me to show you the power of this armour as well. I've already tested it on my dear nephew.”

“Theon lives?” Daenerys raised a brow.

“Oh, he does. And he's made for a valuable test subject as I uncover the true power of this armour. Fascinating people, the Valyrians. Masters of almost everything in the known world. Something we all aspire to be.” Euron cackled.

The trio turned their horses back towards Oldtown. “Break yourself upon my walls if you dare, Daenerys Stormborn. I promise to make things at the very least, entertaining.” Euron announced as they galloped away.

“Your Grace...” Jorah offered a comforting pat on her shoulder.

“I'm fine.” she sighed, glaring up to the walls of the city. “Signal the army. We attack in one hour.”

* * *

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is joined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if my harbor descriptions suck, I suck at writing them. >_

The ship let down its sails as it cut through the waters surrounding Oldtown's harbor. Around it the chaotic din of battle continued unabated; the ships of Euron Greyjoy's Iron Fleet clashing with the royal fleet of Daenerys Targaryen. Explosions lashed about this way and that, with the sounds of wood cracking and men dying filling the din. Wreckage from both fleets littered the waters, the sheer amount of dead bodies and massive splinters of wood impeding the speed of the vessels in its path.

Jon watched from the deck of his ship as a flaming projectile splashed down in the waters to the ship's right. The vessel was charging as fast as the rudders and wind would take it; its destination being the harbor's docks. They were heavily defended on land and sea; the ships of the Iron Fleet busy engaging other Targaryen vessels, while the barricades and catapults on the structures themselves flung all manner of destruction towards them.

Clutching Longclaw tight in his sword hand, his shield securely fastened to his left hand he drew in a deep breath, his stomach churning tightly the closer the ship got. All around him the Unsullied stood, their spears held high and their bodies unflinching. As they passed the great walls of the outer docks, archers raining crossbow bolts on them the whole time Jon ground his teeth together.

The plan was simple; beach the ship and charge the docks, clearing out the pockets of heavy weapons that could do damage to the fleet. These were the catapults and trebuchets currently firing into the battle.

Their ship was riddled with scorpion hits from other vessels and had crossbow bolts sticking from every open piece of wood, but it still rushed forward all the same. If their intelligence was right Daenerys and her forces had begun a forward assault on the gates just hours prior to their arrival; with luck Euron's forces would have been divided between the attacks.

The ship ran up onto the wooden platforms of the docks, lurching to one side as it beached. Jon was the first off the deck, leaping down to meet the oncoming Greyjoy soldiers, their weapons and shields held high as they charged. The Unsullied dropped down not a moment later as Jon rushed into the fray, Longclaw hacking and slashing furiously this way and that.

* * *

He blocked a blow from a mace to his right with the shield, stabbing through the attacker's chest in response. Before the man could fall to the floor Jon was spinning to his left, slashing at a passing spear-man. Behind him the Unsullied were meeting the Greyjoy charge man to man, their shields and spears clashing against the screaming ironborn. All around him, crossbow bolts impacted this way and that, hitting wood and flesh alike.

As he sliced through the throat of a disarmed attacker Jon looked ahead to what awaited them. The main shipyard was sealed tight and heavily defended, with barricades lined with siege weapons and marksmen peppering the attackers even now. They would need to push if there was any hope of breaking through without being wiped out.

Keeping his shield high Jon rushed through a pair of soldiers, shoving all of his weight into the run and successfully knocking one of them into the water, running the other through as he tried to recover. All around him the ironborn were fighting with the strength and speed of a cornered predator – but they were still being pushed back all the same.

Quickly ducking to his knees Jon felt the thuds of bolts as they struck his shield, the points sticking through the wood menacingly. At his side came Grey Worm and a dozen other Unsullied, forming a shield wall as they advanced.

The eunuch commander was covered in blood but still bore the same emotionless visage as he always did. “They are sending reinforcements! We may not have enough to push on!” he shouted over the din of battle.

An explosion sent shock-waves down the docks, the ground trembling. Looking to the source Jon found that a projectile from a catapult had smashed into their ship, sending the entire rudder section into the water and the rest of the vessel rapidly catching fire.

_No going back that way._

“Form your men up! We'll have to move as one!” Jon cried.

Grey Worm barked orders in his native language as the surviving Unsullied advanced, reaching their location and adding their shields to the wall. By now the first wave of ironborn had been repelled, but Jon could see the next waves advancing from the high gates of the harbor. There were hundreds of them charging towards them; many were carrying crossbows and firing into them as they ran.

A green explosion lit up the battle as a jar of wildfire exploded off to the left, catching the lagging Unsullied in an inferno of green fire. “MOVE UP!” Jon shouted and he began rushing forward; no choice in the matter, the Unsullied rushed after him, keeping their shields almost flawlessly locked.

By now the Greyjoy crossbowmen had lined up on the sides of the harbor and were firing into them, their bolts thudding into shields and flesh alike.

Jon could hear the screaming second wave getting closer, their feet rocking the wooden deck they stood on. He shoved all of his weight behind his shield once more as he joined the Unsullied shield-wall, which had halted near the exit of the dock. All around the harbor their foes advanced; they would be sandwiched from two sides.

Still Jon knew that they had to take the harbor or die trying. And he was in no mood to die today -

A loud rumbling melody interrupted his lamentation, the sound causing many of the incoming attackers to halt, looking about in confusion.

“WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!” a chorus of voices screamed – as the barricades at the edge of the docks went up in a cascade of green fire, engulfing the majority of attackers in the rapidly burning substance.

Chaos gripped the men, many screaming and rushing into the water in futile attempts to put out the fires while others smashed into those who had escaped the inferno, spreading it out to the others. Soon the crackling of wood was added to the chaos as several of the catapults were burning in green flame as well.

* * *

“BUT RISES AGAIN HARDER AND STRONGER!” the chorus concluded as a new horde of ironborn emerged from the gates, rushing forward to finish off the surviving attackers. At their head was a man garbed in a tattered and grey robe, his face stern and unflinching as he passed the wildfire without a second thought.

“Stand down!” Jon waved as the Unsullied prepared to advance. Grey Worm nodded and kept his men back while Jon took himself out of a combat stance.

The man stood before Jon, studying him with cold and intense eyes. “You are the green-landers that the Targaryen girl sent? Just you?” he questioned, looking behind him to the battle.

“We're the first wave. We have to take the harbor.” Jon answered, sweat cascading down from his hair. “I don't believe we've met -”

“You may call me Damphair. The sons of the sea behind me are determined to dethrone the false King Euron Greyjoy. No godless man may sit the Salt Throne.” he answered, waving about. The rebels had set to work dismantling or disarming the siege weapons positioned about them. “Your ships should be able to make landfall easier now.”

“We know this one, Jon Snow.” Grey Worm had emerged from the shield-wall, nodding to Aeron. “He is the kraken priest from before.”

“Yes. And you are the eunuch warrior.” Aeron nodded once.

“What of Daenerys's attack on the gates?” Jon asked, looking to the harbor gates with some concern.

“Her forces have scaled the walls and assault Euron's troops even now, but they will find their passage treacherous and deadly. He has lined the streets with traps and other obstacles thanks to the sellswords he employs.” the priest grunted. “Most of his defenders are concentrated at the green-land maester citadel where he holds court.”

“We're grateful for your help.” Jon smiled, patting the man on his shoulder.

“Do not touch me. I am a Drowned Priest of the Iron Islands. Green-land hands are unclean.” Damphair stepped back, taking out a skin of water and pouring it over the area Jon touched. “The rest of your fleet is arriving.” he nodded.

Turning around Jon saw that some of the other assault ships had arrived and were beaching, the various Targaryen soldiers – Dothraki, Reach men, and others – disembarking and making their way up the docks as they assaulted the remaining defenders with some ease.

“Where is the Queen's dragon?” Grey Worm asked.

“The beast is kept with Euron at the citadel.” Aeron answered, turning and pointing to a towering complex off in the distance. “He is in no hurry to use it in battle, it seems. But I cannot get close enough to find out what he is doing. You will need to fight your way past his defenders.”

“What about you?” Jon said, lowering his shield and sword. His arms burned with pain but the adrenaline of the battle still coursed through him; his mind craved more, like a wolf hunting prey.

“There are others spread out throughout the city. They have sabotaged barricades and other weapons – Euron will find that his efforts to defend are hindered. I will remain here with this group and assist with capturing the harbour fully.” he replied, brushing some of his back-length hair over his shoulder.

“We need to get to the Citadel.” Jon turned to Grey Worm as the Damphair strolled away. “but it'll be a tough fight.”

“There are thousands of Unsullied. We will stand with you, Jon Snow.” he stated, watching as more of the grey-armored warriors marched off some of the various ships.

* * *

A sudden bright flash of light startled Jon out of his current thoughts; as he watched the skies – which were clear and sunny – turn abruptly grey within seconds, torrents of rain starting to gush down from the clouds. He heard the faraway clap of thunder and lightning emerge from the din.

All around Oldtown the various lightning towers began to glow as the storm grew even more intense, the rain falling so fast and thick that it was almost impossible to see in front of one's face. The lightning began to crash down into the city as explosions rang out where it struck, the faint screams of wounded and dying echoing with it.

“This is not natural!” Jon cried, rushing into one of the half-destroyed buildings lining the harbor. He found the Damphair there, staring up into the sky with horror.

“What's happening?!” he asked as he shook the priest, uncaring at the protocol.

“The weather towers he mentioned. They are...working.” Aeron whispered, bringing a hand to his mouth. “May the tides protect us.”

“Weather towers?!” Jon shouted, glaring furiously at him.

“From Valyria. I assumed him a liar but...” Damphair seemed genuinely stunned at what was occurring.

_This just got a hell of a lot harder._

* * *

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys fight through Oldtown and the storm. Jorah rides the dragon - though not in the way you think.

The rain poured down around Daenerys as she stepped out of the siege tower onto the walls of Oldtown, her hair and clothes soaking through within seconds. With the strange storm obscuring most of her vision she carefully made her way across the battlements, stepping over the bodies of Targaryen and Greyjoy soldiers alike. The sounds of battle could be heard all around her but aside from Jorah – who kept loyally at her side – she could see nothing.

Massive bolts of lightning crashed into the ground with an uproarious crackle from the sky as she ran for cover, darting into one of the towers that her soldiers had secured. Once they had safely made it inside she turned to Jorah, who stared at her with stark confusion.

“This weather is not natural, Khaleesi.” he said, the lightning flashing around them.

“No.” she agreed, the rain falling off her body in rivets. The storm had started almost without warning just as her forces breached the walls of the city; they'd spied a strange flash emerging from the city at almost the same moment.

Peering out the arrow slit toward the city Daenerys sighed. There was almost no way to coordinate her assault this way – the sheets of rain were so thick that it was impossible to see anything beyond one's hands. “We have to continue moving.” she nodded. “if we stop, we die. It's that simple.”

Jorah nodded. “No sign of Viserion yet, either.”

_What are you doing with my child, Euron?_

“Greyjoy may be insane but he is smart; probably keeping him close.” she stated, exhaling softly.

“Your Grace!” a voice shouted from the right. The sound of a door crashing open allowed her to see the source of the shout; a soldier wearing Tyrell armor stood before her, saluting crisply. “I apologize for the intrusion but there's a group of ironborn here to see you. They claim it's urgent.”

Daenerys nodded. “Send them in.” As the soldier left the room she turned to Jorah. “what is this about, I wonder?”

“Perhaps word from Yara?” he offered, shrugging.

A young man garbed in the traditional ironborn armor returned moments later, bowing respectfully as he entered. “Your Grace. I am Symond Botley.” he greeted, his blonde hair soaked through with rain. None the less he was smooth-faced and quite handsome, Daenerys noted.

“I greet you Ser Botley. You claimed to have urgent business with me?” she replied, studying the man closely.

“Aye, Your Grace. The Damphair sent me to treat with you.”

Daenerys nodded. Aeron Greyjoy had vanished shortly after she had sent for the rest of her court to join her at King's Landing; she thought he returned to the Iron Islands to preach against Euron and his reign but evidently he had decided to travel to Oldtown and preach instead. _Brave of you, Damphair._

“And what has the Damphair to say?” she queried.

“He and a good lot of the rebels have helped secure the harbour. Your eunuchs and that Northman are there now, but they're moving towards the Citadel where Euron holds court.” he replied, gesturing with a hand out into the city.

“Rebels?” Jorah asked, narrowing his eyes at the man.

“Aye. No godless man may sit the Salt Throne. Euron's insane and has to be stopped. We all see it.” Symond sighed, slouching under the weight of his soaked armour. “A good amount of ironborn have revolted against him. They've been sabotaging the defenses of the city – now we're in open revolt against him.”

Daenerys allowed herself a gentle smile. It did her heart good to hear that Jon and Grey Worm had survived and been successful. She had wanted them to survive – especially her nephew – but knew that victory in battle was more important than personal feelings. “Then we need to move to the Citadel as well.”

“Won't be easy. Euron's blocked the square with his troops, traps and those Second Sons. He's got everything blocking the roads. And these damn weather towers -”

“Weather towers?” Jorah snapped, resting a hand on his sword hilt.

“Aye, ser. Valyrian in origin; Euron salvaged them the same place he found Dragonbinder.” Botley answered, his face growing nervous. “Claims that they can control the tides, the clouds, everything. Apparently they can.”

Daenerys shook her head; this man, this usurper – this madman, even – was able to harness the technology of her forefathers in a way that made her look as though a petulant child. “I am the blood of Old Valyria, not Euron Greyjoy.” she snarled, grinding her teeth. “what gives him the right to use the tools of the Freehold against us?”

Being met with silence only resolved her to push on. “Jorah, prepare our forces for the push into Oldtown proper. We need to get to the Citadel at all costs. I don't care about the rain or lightning. We find Euron, we end this.”

“Yes, Khaleesi.” he smiled, rushing back out into the rain to find the assault commanders.

“Ser Botley,” Daenerys turned back to the puzzled ironborn in front of her. “Do your rebels know the city well?”

“Well enough, aye.”

“Good. Then we press forward together. Prepare your men.” she commanded, climbing down the tower. It would be simple to command Jorah to lead the army into battle, but she was a Queen; a Khaleesi. She had the blood of Valyria in her veins – and must lead from the front just as her late husband had once done.

* * *

At the gates of Oldtown the Targaryen offensive began.

Unsullied, Dothraki and other troops battered down the city gates and flooded into the streets, clashing with the ironborn defenders they found there. Pitched battles raged down every block, with bitter house-to-house fighting consuming the majority of time. Lightning crashed down around them, causing explosions that killed Targaryen troops and ironborn alike.

From within the shieldwall of Unsullied Daenerys marched forward, Jorah at her side. The sounds of battle echoed around her – the screams of the dead and dying filling the air even through the pounding rain and thunder.

The Second Sons unleashed their traps, with booby trapped wall plates firing off poisoned darts into the attackers while floor plates triggered wildfire caches that ripped large chunks of stone and brick from the streets, battering troops on both sides with heavy projectiles.

As they reached a bend in the street, the sounds of crossbow bolts thudding into her shields Daenerys peered out into the battle. Nearly half of the street was smoldering; buildings having exploded or caught fire only to be quickly put out by the rain.

Pools of water were flooding some of the narrow ditches, which were now clogged with bodies. The streets were slippery with water and blood, with the fallen of both sides littered every which way.

Green fires also were scattered about the streets, with wildfire caches having exploded; the substance not extinguishing until burning itself out. At her side Jorah clutched his sword tightly, his muscles twitching as he thirsted for battle.

“ADVANCE!” Daenerys commanded as her protectors rushed forward. She felt their shields clash against something as axes and maces battered at the shield-wall, the ironborn having found her column. She was a Khaleesi; she would fight if she had to.

Pushing her way out of the wall she grasped her own sword – a gift from Grey Worm – and slashed towards the Greyjoy attackers. It found and bit into the arm of one man, who howled in pain and dropped his shield – only to be impaled by an Unsullied spear. Jorah had rushed out and stood at her side, hacking wildly at the defenders.

“Khaleesi! We must get back under cover!” he cried, using his metal hand to batter a helpless ironborn to the ground before finishing him off with a stab to the gut. “If you fall then this is all for nothing!”

She sighed, knowing he was correct. As her Unsullied moved back into cover around her she heard Jorah shout a violent expletive as the sounds of clashing swords filled her ears. “Jorah? Where are you?!” she cried, trying to force herself back out of the wall only to be stopped by her protectors.

* * *

Jorah Mormont was not a violent man by nature; nor was he petty or vindictive. But when Daario Naharis emerged from the chaotic battle, arrogantly smirking in front of him he knew what must happen next. This worm betrayed the Queen's confidence – the Queen he loved. Had loved from the beginning.

“YOU DIE!” he howled, rushing forward as he stabbed at the sellsword, who moved swiftly away from his attacks. Behind him Jorah could hear Daenerys calling for him, but he knew that Naharis must die for the good of their attack. Much to his irritation the man made no moves to attack him; merely standing in place and wearing that grin.

“You're faster now, old boy!” he exclaimed, making a series of feints toward him with his daggers. “It's nice to see!”

“Fast enough to kill you.” Jorah snarled, stepping into a series of slashes aimed at the man's midsection. Once more the sellsword agility dodged them all, his body moving far too fast for Jorah's sword to keep up with. He battered forward with his iron hand, hoping to smash the grin off Daario's smug face.

Daario finally responded, rolling forward and tackling Jorah dead in the stomach, the blow knocking the men onto the slippery pavement. Casting aside his daggers the man straddled Jorah's lap, punching him in the face repeatedly. Bringing his hands up he tried to respond with hits of his own but Daario merely dodged his attacks or blocked with his forearms.

Trying to raise his iron arm Jorah found that he could not punch with it; meaning he was reduced to fighting with his remaining fleshy arm while pinned like this. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose as the man continued his attack before pausing, shooting a wink down at him.

“I told you before that riding the dragon was too much for you.” he laughed – only for Jorah to land a hit right to his face, staggering the arrogant prick enough for him to launch his upper body up from the pavement and into him, rolling around with him as they headbutted and kicked one another.

Each hit to his body made Jorah that much weaker – but his adrenaline kept him matching the younger man blow for blow. Both men lay in a bloody pool by the time they smashed into a gutter, clogged with water and dead bodies alike. They narrowly avoided falling in, rolling backwards just in time.

As they stood, panting at one another Daario spat a good mouthful of blood onto the ground. “Not bad, Mormont. For an old boy.”

* * *

“This old boy has a lot more in him then you think, Naharis.” Jorah laughed as he launched himself forward, tackling Daario into the ground once more. This time he was able to get the upper hand despite the struggle, battering his head with the iron arm once, then twice, then three times and four.

Each hit made the man's struggles weaker, until he was nothing but a twitching mess underneath Jorah.

What was left of the man's head had been caved in, gore seeping out of the dead man's wound and into the street.

_It wasn't pretty – but it was what you deserved_ , he thought as he rose painfully to his feet, a savage grin plastered on his face.

“JORAH!” a voice cried from behind him. Turning quickly he found himself face to face with Daenerys, who stared at him with a mixture of worry and fear as the gore-soaked knight smiled calmly at her.

“Are you...are you alright?” she whispered, staring at him and Naharis's body back and forth.

“Daario finally met his match. Ride the dragon, he told me. Fuck him.” he snarled, rushing forward to stand at her side once more. She gently embraced him in a hug, uncaring about the gore on his armor.

“We have to get back to the front. Hurry!” she urged as she grasped his good hand, pulling him back toward the Unsullied shield-wall; it apparently had halted before a barricade that the troops were attacking, pulling down and killing the Second Sons and Greyjoy defenders alike from the crude wooden contraption.

Soon, the city would be theirs. And Daenerys would sit the Iron Throne and rule over the Seven Kingdoms – just as it was meant to be.

* * *

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa speaks with Tyrion and gets a surprise.

“Is this necessary, Tyrion?” Sansa asked, walking briskly beside the Queen's Hand. He had asked to meet with her in the Throne Room; now they were on the way towards the courtyard, flanked by several of Tyrion's handpicked guards.

“Necessary? No. But I want to show you something; I think you will like it and most importantly, it will help keep your mind off things.” he said, offering her a gentle smile.

Jon and the fleet had departed several days ago; Sansa's heart had been in her throat ever since. Her mind was a maelstrom of emotions – anger at Daenerys for asking him to fight her battles, acceptance that Jon had to fulfill this in order to secure the North from southern rule, and of course a near-crippling anxiety over the results of the battle.

She kept her composure as always; the last time she walked the halls of the Red Keep it was as a hostage of the Lannisters – specifically of Cersei, who was still locked in her chamber awaiting the Queen's justice – but now it was as a free woman; a Queen in her own right. But the walls held eyes and ears, she knew, and many of them would sell her out for a new loaf of bread.

It didn't help that she had been battling morning sickness, either; because her pregnancy was not known to anyone outside of the North she had to suffer in silence without Jon to support her. She had been tempted to tell Sam Tarly about it, but could not bring herself to.

“My mind is perfectly fine – but I am touched by your concern.” she nodded to him as they stepped down another flight of stairs.

“Sansa,” Tyrion turned to her, gently taking one of her hands. “you need not lie to me. Kneel and let me tell you something.”

She knelt down carefully, her eyes at level with his own. He leaned over her shoulder, his lips nearly touching her ear and whispered. “I know about your pregnancy. You need not hide it from me.”

* * *

 

A jolt of fear shot through her body causing her to shiver. How had he learned of this? She and Jon had been so careful. “I...do not know what you mean.” she lied quickly, her face remaining neutral.

“Yes you do.” he replied, softly patting her hand. “rest assured, I have no intention of telling the Queen.“

She felt herself going faint, her body trembling ever so slightly with fear. She could try to lie; deny as much as she would like. Spin a story of an imagined illness – but this was Tyrion Lannister. He knew better than anyone, especially regarding the nature of politics.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her eyes gazing to the floor in shame.

“I suspected since you first arrived, truthfully; you never used to wear a dress much larger then your body.” he smiled. “I was there for all of Cersei's children when she was with them; I watched her habits then. Eating more food, mood swings, strange appetites. The signs were all there.”

Sansa sighed softly. Her cravings had done her in once again; she'd ordered more lemon cakes then usual be sent to her chambers, and she had developed a sudden taste for fresh tomato soup of all things. She and Jon had reasoned it had to do with the baby.

“It's alright.” Tyrion added. “As I said, I have no plans to tell the Queen. Your life is your own, my dear.”

Rising to her feet Sansa began to walk forward, Tyrion following at her side. “Tell her if you wish. We will...lose the baby after she dies anyway.” she bit down on her lip, trying to avoid the tears from flowing.

Tyrion gently grasped her hand once more, his touch firm and steady. “Sansa. I did my best to talk the Queen out of her agreement. I truly did – but the alternative was far worse. She would have forced Jon to marry her instead, and declared him as her heir.”

“But Jon is her nephew.” Sansa breathed, her stomach knotting over with anxiety once more.

“The Targaryens have married siblings to each other for thousands of years. Incest was the norm for the nobility of old Valyria. An aunt marrying a nephew...would that be such a stretch?” he chuckled, the pair descending down another flight of stairs.

* * *

The doors to the courtyard swung open, the sunlight streaming into the hall. Sansa quickly covered her eyes with a hand as they walked out into the crisp air. Tyrion pointed towards something off to the side, covered with a large white sheet.

“Come Sansa, what I have to show you is there.” he smiled, waddling towards the scene quickly. Sansa followed him, eyes habitually darting this way and that in an effort to check for unwanted eyes or ears; _the Red Keep has them everywhere_ , she repeated to herself.

As they drew closer Sansa made out the sounds of chipping hammers and winches. Workmen were rushing this way and that, carrying large blocks of stone towards the sheet. Tyrion hung back as Sansa joined him near the statue; she could tell what it was now. He held out a hand for her to grasp, which she did.

“The Queen ordered this to be built as one of her first decrees.” he told her, leading her around the front.

It was the statue of a man, his hands grasping the rough outline of a sword. Most of the work had yet to be completed – only the legs, body and head were ready – but Sansa could see immediately that the face upon the head was that of her father. It was almost as though he had returned to life in the form of this as yet finished work; the detail on his face and hair was so realistic that she had to resist the urge to rush forward and hug the base.

Her mouth fell open as she stared up at the face. Her eyes refused to move as they welled with fresh tears. She tried to control herself; retain her composure as she was so used to doing but her training and discipline had failed her.

Sansa wept, her hand gently rising to her eyes as the tears began to flow. Tyrion gently patted her free hand softly. “Your father was a good man. He would be so proud of you – and Jon Snow, both – if he could see you today.”

Sansa stepped forward, noticing an inscription at the base of the statue. Wiping her eyes dry for the moment she peered down at it;

> EDDARD STARK OF WINTERFELL
> 
> HAND OF THE KING TO ROBERT BARATHEON 299 AC
> 
> A MAN OF HONOR

_Would he be proud of me? For lying, scheming and plotting?_

“Tyrion...” she whimpered, falling to her knees. He embraced her, wrapping his stunted arms around her shoulders softly. She wept into him, her body wracked with sorrow. She cried for him; taken too soon before her eyes. She cried for her mother and Robb and Rickon and the direwolves, too. She cried for Jon and herself, and their child growing inside of her belly.

_The future will be different. I promise._

* * *

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron reads some books. Theon slits some throats.

The sounds of battle echoed through the room, even at its position at the top of the Citadel. The explosions and shouts, screams of dying men, and the tremendous boom of lightning were like a cacophony of grim reminders to Euron – not of the horror of war, but for him to work faster. He feverishly continued his reading of the latest book on Old Valyria he'd uncovered; purchased from a Summer Islands trader who'd “accidentally” ended up near Oldtown waters.

_And by purchased, I mean stolen. From his dead corpse._

This one was perhaps the most promising find yet – it spoke in great detail about the dragonlords and their arts; the ancient rituals and spells that they had once used. It even made mention of the weather towers – outside currently generating a torrential rain storm, the lightning crashing down around him – that he found ironic. Sweat dribbled from his face onto the pages but he did not care or even notice. He was on the verge, the cusp of understanding – and once he had unlocked the diamond's secret then there would be no more battles or wars; only an empire of endless order and peace, ruled by its God.

A feral smile curled on his lips; he'd found a passage making mention of “magical gems of great power”. Reading on he skimmed over most of the text – useless descriptions and ancient legends – feverishly flipping the tattered pages to try and find what he was looking for. This book would have the answers he needed; the things he must do in order to unlock the power of reality itself.

His eyes lit up as he flipped to another page, the words replaced with a drawing eerily matching that of the diamond, which was sitting on the desk next to the book. His body ached with excitement and anticipation; nothing that the book said would deter him from this. Even though he had learned the Valyrians had abandoned the study of such a “exceptionally powerful jewel” it did not – and would not – stop him. He would surpass them. He would triumph where they cowered.

He found it.

* * *

A scream of primal delight echoed through the room as he grasped the page, ripping it free from the book and stuffing it into his satchel, laying beside the chair he sat in. He grasped the diamond and gently tucked it into the same satchel, fitting the gauntlets of his Valyrian armor back on his hands; the runes glowing red as he did so.

Euron smashed open the door to his study, rushing out into the hall. He had to get to Viserion and take flight; he passed by the sentries and maesters without a second thought, worming his way to the stairs and practically leaping up them, three steps at a time. As he came to the top he found Lucas Codd waiting, a worried expression on his face.

“Lucas!” he exclaimed, the same insane smile still plastered to his face. “So good to see you. But I must go! I've got it!” he pushed past the man and started for the next level.

“Your Grace, wait!” Codd called, rushing to his side. “The situation is getting bad. The Targaryens've battered down the Citadel gates and are inside as we speak! I've ordered our reavers to hold them off as long as they can, but we need some kind of plan.”

“It doesn't matter! I need to get to Viserion!”

_Fuck the citadel. Fuck Lucas Codd. Fuck them ALL!_

That made an angry red glow light up the man's face. “You would run from battle, Your Grace?! I've stood by you this lon -”

* * *

Euron grasped him by the throat, shoving him into the wall. As he struggled to break free the King snarled to him. “I am not running. There is a difference, dear Lucas. I am going to FORGE the destiny of the Ironborn. Something that cannot happen here! If I am successful there will be no more enemies for us to face.” he grinned, releasing the man from the gauntlet's hold.

“I have a task for you!” Euron commanded, forcing him back to his feet. “Fight. Fight as hard as you can. Do not give sweet Daenerys an inch of this tower without shedding as much blood as possible.”

As he turned back to the stairs he heard his lieutenant call out once more.

“What about Theon?” Codd coughed, wheezing from the choking.

Euron turned his head, his eyes glittering with malice. “Kill him. I've no further use for my dear nephew.” He turned back around, rushing the length of the long hall as soldiers and maesters watched him in confusion.

The runes on his armour were glowing a gentle green as he ascended the stairs, his legs aching from the swiftness of his climb. Euron ignored the pain and pushed on; in just a little while that pain would be meaningless. He would start by erasing Daenerys and her wretched family from history, replacing the glories of Valyria with the glories of Pyke. Ironborn would master the dragons of old; ironborn loyal to him and him alone.

From there they would have total dominion over not only Westeros but the lands to the east, as far as Yi Ti and beyond. The whole world would be an Ironborn paradise; one where every man, woman and child bowed down to their emperor.

Their god, conductor and master of fates.

The page within his satchel had told him where to go, and what to do; return to Valyria and descend into the deepest of the Fourteen Flames – the great volcanoes where the first dragons were found – and drop the diamond into the deepest pit of the deepest magma that existed in the known world.

It did not scare him. It excited him. Euron lived for this; he lived for the adventure that came when he sailed into the smoking ruins of the peninsula. He lived for the terrors and wonders that he and the crew of the _Silence_ found there.

And he lived to become a god.

* * *

The door to Theon's cell opened with a bang. He quickly raised his eyes to block out the streaming waves of light that struck him all over his ragged body. A figure stood before him and stared with a look of malevolent glee upon his face.

Theon knew the man; Lucas Codd, Euron's top lieutenant. He would often be present when his uncle “experimented” with his Valyrian armour upon his body, and would indulge in his own cruelties as well – the taste of the man's whip had kissed Theon's chest and body far too often since his captivity had begun.

But this time instead of picking him up and dragging him from the room Lucas pressed the point of his sword to Theon's neck. “Sorry, Greyjoy. The King's done with you now – he's demanded your death.” the man snickered.

“Of...of course he has.” Theon sighed. It was only a matter of time before Euron grew tired of him – or until all of the runes on his armour were fully tested and understood. Either or, there was no more use for him to be found here in his uncle's kingdom.

“How do you want it? On your knees like a coward or standing like a man?” Codd said, narrowing his eyes.

“Look me in the eye.” Theon whispered, staring defiantly up at him.

“I don't look at women.” Codd snarled. He shifted his stance as he turned his head to the door, investigating some noise or the other.

Theon took his chance.

Jumping to his feet he grasped the dagger sheathed on Codd's belt and ran it across his throat, the man unable to react as his lifeblood poured from the wound. He dropped the sword and fell to the ground, gasping as he crawled from the cell, gurgling out a pathetic cry for help as he died, twitching on the floor within half a heartbeat.

* * *

Theon bent down, grasped the sword and walked into the hallway – only to be met with the sword of Jon Snow pointed at his face. Both men looked awful; Theon due to his torture and Jon from the battle; he was caked in layers of blood and gore.

“Greyjoy!” Jon snarled, taking a two handed grip on his blade. “Just the man I wanted to see again.”

“Jon, please!” Theon begged, stepping over Codd's lifeless corpse. “Listen to me. We...we need to find Euron and stop him.”

“I need to find him and stop him! There is no 'we' here, Theon.” he said, glaring daggers at him.

“If he's able to activate...the diamond, all is lost. You don't understand...” Theon stammered, staggering back against the wall. He was so weak, so tired...so tortured.

“What diamond? What are you on about?” Jon asked, lowering his sword slightly but remaining in a guard stance.

Theon told him about the diamond that Euron possessed; he loved to talk about when Theon was alone with him – how it could change realities and shape the world into whatever he so chose. “...but he doesn't know how to activate it. If he finds out..”

Jon's eyes went wide in disbelief. He stared at Theon a moment; seemingly trying to work out if he was telling the truth. “If you're lying to me..”

“Jon!” he shouted, his face contorting angrily. “I've been tortured. Shocked with lightning. Burned with fire. Frozen with ice. Stabbed by e-earth. I have nothing to lose by protecting him. Euron is a danger to the entire world, not just Oldtown!”

“Fine. Where is he?” Jon demanded, looking about the hallway.

“He keeps his chambers in the archmaester's tower. Right at the t-top level.” he answered, gesturing to the flight of stairs nearest the room.

* * *

Jon rushed over and began to climb, Theon hot on his trail. As he went up a few steps Jon stopped, turning back around to face him.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, staring at Theon with a mix of pity and revulsion.

“Helping you. I have to try...to try and redeem myself somehow.” Theon answered, nodding slightly.

Jon sighed, shaking his head as he said nothing a moment. The silence between them was almost worse than anything else; the pent up anger, the swell of emotion – the unresolved conflict between the boys they once had been.

“I wonder if there's such a thing as 'redemption' for someone like you, Theon.” he finally said, turning back around and starting up the stairs.

“I don't know...but I'm willing to find out.” Theon responded, following close behind.

* * *

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Theon confront Euron.

The door to the Archmaester's chamber flew open as Euron entered, glaring around frantically. “The horn! Where is it?!” he shouted; usually there was at least one member of his crew on duty here; the King entrusted the mute to keep watch over Viserion when he was chained up here.

The particular mute on duty was one Euron had nicknamed “Lumper” - due in part to the massive growth on the man's right cheek. It only began to develop after he had removed Lumper's tongue. He had served with the King for many years; unfailingly obedient, the ideal subject for his upcoming empire. Though he was not stupid – removing the tongues of everyone in the world would accomplish nothing, sadly.

“Lumper! Where's the Dragonbinder?!” Euron shouted as the man stepped into view. He'd stashed the horn here – hidden in a secret compartment that only the mutes of the Silence knew, as they rotated it once per week to ensure no one could steal it away.

Euron watched as the man filed away, heading towards one of the supply closets. As he did so Euron walked up the small flight of stairs he'd installed in the room – where the chains binding Viserion to the room were kept, the beast roaring all the while – and began to release them from its skin. “Time for us to go...off to your ancestral homeland, we are..” he mumbled the whole time.

Within moments Lumper was back, holding the horn in his hands. The man gestured to Euron and then to the dragon, tilting his head questioningly.

“No, I don't want it. Destroy it! Dunk it in wildfire and set it alight! Put it up your ass if you want! Just don't let the Targaryens get their hands on it.” he ordered, waving the man off. The horn had served its purpose – once the diamond was activated there would be no need for any such relics. The ironborn would control the skies; and it would have been so since prehistory.

Viserion had been fitted with a massive set of armor covering it's chest, the chains securing it making the breastplate hang loose off its body. It did not matter, though – it was soley for show as well as punishment; the chains wrapped tightly around its skin, causing scales to fall off where it chafed.

“Going somewhere, uncle?” a voice called from the door. Euron spun about, surprised.

* * *

Standing in the doorway was his nephew; dear, sweet Theon – who carried a sword covered in blood. He was still ragged and showed signs of weakness from his extensive torture but he stood tall, sword pointed towards Euron.

Beside him stood a man caked in blood and gore, black hair pulled back into a bun and an angry glare upon his face. This must be Jon Snow, the King mused. He'd heard much of the boy King in the North; and now he was an irritant that must be removed.

“Little Theon!” Euron beamed, stepping down from the platform, smiling. “I'm so glad to see you one last time, before I go off to secure the future of our people. It will be so nice to rule the skies, the seas and the earth ourselves, don't you think?” “No. I don't.” he shook his head, sword hand trembling. “your madness ends now.”

“And Jon Snow, the King in the North. So nice to finally meet you.” he bowed, laughing towards the men. “I've heard so much about you; the legendary White Wolf, defender of the shit-pile called Winterfell, and so on and so forth.”

“Stand down, Greyjoy.” Jon snarled, pointing his blade at Euron. “and I can promise you a swift death, more then you deserve for what you've done.”

Euron laughed, raising his right hand towards the pair, tapping the palm of his hand with the fingers, causing a bolt of lightning to blast out from the gauntlet and just off to the side near them. Both of them recoiled in surprise, Jon's face one of shock.

* * *

“Like it?” Euron asked, shrugging. “Turns out that I can cycle through the lovely runes on this armor. Each one does something different. That one is for lightning. This one, fire..” he tapped his palm again, the rune switching to a glowing red which then shot out a gout of flame into the air. “This one, water..” Another tap, a blue rune and a blast of freezing cold water.

“Enough games!” Jon snapped, baring his teeth in a primal snarl. “stop hiding behind your toys and face me, blade to blade. Or are you too craven to do that?”

“Craven? My dear boy, I am the farthest thing from it.” Euron replied, keeping his composure. He'd been called such many times by a wide variety of men – fools who thought to kill him and take what was rightfully his. It would be much harder then that to anger him into action. “I just don't have time for foolish name calling. I have a date with destiny.”

“Your date ends here.” he growled, stepping forward. “Fight me. One on one. Theon tells me that it's the ironborn way, but I suppose you aren't much of an ironborn if you aren't willing to follow your own customs.”

“Oh no, my dear nephew is not wrong. It IS the ironborn way.” Euron bared his teeth in a malevolent smile at the man. “but I am not an ironborn. I am far, far more then a base pirate, worshipping the waters as though a primitive savage.”

“Enough talk!” Jon roared, launching himself forward with his sword held high. Euron held his hand towards the charging figure as a great blast of wind propelled Jon backwards, smashing into Theon and rolling them down the first set of stairs to the room.

“Yes, enough talk. Lumper! The horn?!” he shouted to the mute, who was in the process of dousing Dragonbinder in wildfire, who replied with a thumbs up. Satisfied Euron climbed back up the stairs to Viserion and undid the last bit of chain.

* * *

 

As he settled in atop the beast's neck Euron let out a mighty laugh, grasping the chains and urging him into the air, the sheets of rain soaking rider and dragon alike.

“To Valyria!” he shouted, the beast taking off towards the west at great speed.

* * *

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects on his life as Euron flies off to Valyria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for anyone confused about how Jon managed this, I made mention in the previous chapter about the oversized plate Euron had attached to Viserion's body, like just near the neck. That's where Jon is hiding, for the record. :)

The large metal plate swayed from side to side as Viserion flew but the chains keeping it tethered to the dragon were strong enough to support its weight as well as Jon's own. He'd dived inside the loose armour just as Euron prepared to leave, Longclaw at his side.

_Valyria,_ Jon mused.

The land of his forefathers. He shook his head; his forefathers were in the North – and no amount of talk about bloodlines would change that for him. What Euron was after – the answer to unlocking the diamond – was in the smoking ruins of the Freehold, a place that no man save the one mounted atop the dragon had ever returned from.

His body ached from laying on the plate, the wind whipping about the space between the dragon and Jon's chest. He could not risk peering out over the side lest he risk being blown over to his death – and now, more then ever he could not die. He had to stop Euron from changing the very fabric of history itself; if what Theon said was right the power in the hands of a man like this would be a total and complete disaster not just for Westeros, but for the world.

His thoughts turned to the dragon, the scars and open wounds covering it's body visible to him. It was clear that the dragon horn wasn't the only way that Greyjoy had kept it in line; the beast had been tortured quite extensively, presumably when it disobeyed Euron's orders. He felt a sense of sadness for Viserion; this was Rhaegal's brother, and no beast as powerful and ancient as a dragon deserved such brutal treatment.

His time spent with the dragon had affected his mind, Jon knew; he felt a certain kinship with the beast despite the major differences involved in their very beings. Dragons were ferocious, aggressive beasts that dominated the skies, devouring anything that caught its fancy. Yet they were also wise and long-lived – Aegon the Conqueror's dragon Balerion lived almost three centuries. Closing his eyes Jon was able to feel a very faint sense of something within his mind.

Fire? The presence was hot, and fierce. Focusing intently he saw the faint outline of wings and a tail begin to take shape. His mind projected the senses of protection and determination onto him; this presence – what he imagined was Rhaegal – was urging him onward, to save his brother and destroy this interloper, this defiler for the good of Westeros.

His mind also had the distinct and comforting feeling of ice; of Ghost. Of his loyal and faithful friend, who had been by his side almost since all of this began. The direwolf was at Winterfell, helping to protect Bran and Arya as they held the North together. He may very well be the last of his litter but Jon loved him all the same; had loved him since the day he was found.

_Ghost is a part of me far more then Rhaegal is._

* * *

It symbolized his struggle; as a man torn between two identities. One, the Bastard of Winterfell – now King in the North; raised as a product of sin and lust from a man known for his unfailing honor. Hated by that man's wife and her family, ostracized even from his brothers and sisters. But that identity was a lie, he tried to tell himself. _All a ruse to protect me from the wrath of Robert Baratheon._

What was the other part of him? The child of the North and South; of ice and fire. Of forbidden love between a princess and prince. A love that started a war and saw the death of both of those who had a hand in his creation. What was his future if things had been different? He would be the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. A prospect that terrified him.

Despite all of his research on the Targaryen heritage he now knew was his, when he thought of “father” he saw the smiling face of Eddard Stark. And he would always, no matter what. While Rhaegar Targaryen may have been a good and honourable man, who gave up everything – including his life – to be with Lyanna Stark, Jon had never been given the chance to know him as a parent.

He had to smother a laugh even as his mind wandered to the sobering thoughts of his past; it was now, while hiding within the loose confines of a dragon's armour; a dragon being ridden by a madman on his way to Valyria to unlock the secrets of a jewel that could change reality did he really confront the nagging feelings in his mind.

_I'll have to throw myself into danger more often,_ he thought.

His mind turned back to Sansa and their child, back in King's Landing. He had a duty to come home, to see his child grow up as long as he could. To love and care for and be with Sansa, to show her the truth within the lies of the life she was forced to live.

Sansa was his anchor, his guide, his everything. They had been through so much in their separate lives – death, lies, mistreatment and trauma abounded. But within each others arms they had been able to rebuild, emotionally and mentally. Together. Jon remembered every kiss, every caress, every tender moment and rough moment, every wild night or afternoon of sex and every calm night of love making.

_There would be more to come_ , he told himself. _I will survive and return to her._

Jon ran a hand along Longclaw, the smooth and gentle caress of the flat blade being a comfort as time went on. If all else had failed; if he did not think himself ready to face the fires of Valyria Jon would have sliced his way inside Viserion's stomach and done as much damage as he could, thus forcing the dragon down – and sending both he and Euron falling to their deaths.

His whole life had lead up to these moments.

_Kill the boy and let the man be born._ From facing down the Others and the Night King, to battling his way through Oldtown – and even being able to solve the crisis of his role as King, Jon viewed every major step in his life to be part of his test.

Could he truly have killed the boy; the broody, sad and melancholy part of him? Was he the man that the North needed, that Sansa needed – that he needed? There was no real time for second thoughts at this point; he had to make sure of this fact.

Exhaling sharply through his nose Jon nodded.

He was ready. There would only be one man coming out of Valyria alive tonight; and it would not be Euron Greyjoy.

* * *

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Euron have a little scrap.

Euron's goal was finally in sight. The largest of the Fourteen Flames – with a crater the size of Oldtown itself – loomed below, red embers dancing about the beast every which way. This was the heart of old Valyria, the place where Euron had come during his first trip inland, and it brought back a flood of fond memories for the King. Despite the red fog that choked the skies he felt a sense of peace, here in the desolate wastes. This was his place – no man had travelled to Valyria and returned alive – but yet he had done it. Only he knew of the secrets buried here.

As Viserion began to enter the maw of the volcano, the fog began to dissipate and was replaced with the smell, sound and sights of lava rocks; glowing browns and reds all around him as he dived deeper into the pit. The air grew hot around the dragon – and Euron, by extension – but he fought through the sensations. Sweat dribbled from his brow as the air became thick with soot and fumes, causing him to hack and retch violently; only a bit further, now.

He had been riding for a day and a half, with no rest for rider or dragon – and with very little food between them, save for some jerky that he'd hastily thrown together. Euron's body rebelled with hunger but his mind urged them onward. Finally the fumes and soot vanished as he directed the beast down a side chamber, the tunnel barely wide enough to accommodate them.

After a few meters of perilous travel they emerged into a lower chamber; the air almost searing hot around them. Coughing hard Euron grasped the ripped page from his satchel and shoved it to his face, the smell of the old ink making the pain from inhaling slightly less. Still he pushed Viserion forward, the beast diving lower and lower – until he saw it.

Carved into the chamber's northern wall was an opening, a massive rock platform resting outside of the entrance. As Viserion touched down on the platform, his claws digging into the ancient rock Euron found himself shaking with glee, even through the armor that kept him protected from the heat. Of course, he had been unable to find the helmet that went with the armor – and he found that highly irritating, knowing it would have been a great help to him in the searing chambers.

 _Oh well,_ he mused, climbing off the dragon and smashing into the floor with a great crunch. He grasped the satchel tight around his shoulder and began to walk into the chamber, his hands shaking all the while.

It was only a few steps into the chamber that he found what he sought after; a great waterfall of lava flowing down into a pool, constantly draining down into an underground tunnel far below. The flowing red liquid was...different than the usual magma he had experienced; it had a slightly un-natural and aged black sheen to it.

The first pit. It was said that the dragons of Valyria came from that underground tunnel, birthed from lava and air at the dawn of time. Whatever the case, all he had to do now was to drop the diamond into that pit and he would have accomplished more then the Valyrians of old; who'd abandoned the research when they found it too hazardous to their liking.

* * *

Of course, it would not be simple. The boy king Jon Snow stood behind him, his breath growing hoarse in the rough heat of the chamber. _Brave_ , Euron thought. _Daring, to follow me to this accursed place. But alas, it will be for nothing._

“I congratulate you, Jon Snow. You and I are trailblazers – we are the only men to ever venture into Valyria and survive, thus far.” he beamed, turning about to face him. “of course, you will sadly not return to tell the tale.”

Raising Longclaw towards him Jon shrugged. “You're nothing but a madman with delusions of godhood.” he said, spitting up thick phlegm as he spoke. “Now, stand down. It's over.”

Euron took the satchel off his shoulder, casually letting it fall near the edge of the platform. “It is over, aye. For you.” he smiled, stepping forward to confront him.

For the briefest of moments silence reigned out through the chamber as the two foes faced down one another. Euron with his twisted grin, eyes glimmering with malevolence and Jon, face hardened with determination and resolve.

Euron went to his side, pulling out his weapon – something he'd taken from an Ibbanese pirate vessel over a decade ago. It appeared to be a simple metal rod, but he twisted the handle and the rod became a staff – then a scythe.

Whilst shorter than a regular scythe used by say, farmers, it still had its wonderful uses. He spun the blade over his head, slashing it down into the volcanic soil and rock beneath his feet.

“It's not Valyrian steel, but it can go blade to blade with your Longclaw.” he stated, grasping the scythe tightly in his hands.

“Then show me.” Jon retorted as both men rushed forward.

* * *

Euron swung wildly as he closed within range of Jon, his scythe slashing towards the boy's upper body. Jon's blade met the scythe the first few attempts before he rolled off to the left, the scythe burying itself into the ground as he made his way to a ready stance.

Euron continued his offensive, pulling the blade from the earth and whirling it around the top of his head, launching it outward to try and overcome Jon with brute force. He blocked the slash, then another, then another. He took note of Euron's steps every time; the man was trying to overpower him with pure offence.

It was reckless but if he did not adjust his own fighting moves he could be overwhelmed within a few more flurries from the fatigue. His mind cycled back to Ser Rodrik's training; _a brute with a sword cannot block a man with one._

Of course, Ser Rodrik hadn't fought an insane king with a full set of Valyrian steel armor – but the principle remained the same. As he blocked another overhead slash Jon decided to control the field; he stepped forward as Euron drew his scythe back, leaving his midsection open for the briefest of moments.

Jon's stab struck his guts; and if it were any other kind of armor, would have run the man clean through. But his blow merely dented the armor, a resounding and ear-piercing screeching staggering both men at the impact.

Euron blinked in surprise, running a hand down to the dented section of his armor. “Not bad, boy. A few more like that and you might – and I say might – get through.” he seethed, his voice full of hate. “Now, let's see what your guts look like!”

* * *

Instead of rushing forward Euron turned the handle of the weapon, the scythe retracting and his weapon becoming a staff. Jon renewed his attack, thrusting in with a series of stabs to his upper body but Euron battered them away, his staff moving quickly.

He responded with a swing towards Jon's head, his blade unable to meet it in time as the hard metal smacked him across the cheek, sending him stumbling backward, blood trickling from his mouth. He spat it out into the ground as Euron swung again, his staff now aimed for his midsection. Jon blocked the first blow, battering it aside – only for Euron to jab the staff into his foot, sending a wave of pain jolting through it.

Jon staggered again, grunting in pain with every step. Euron continued his assault, aiming another blow for his head which Jon easily deflected.

“I must say, boy. You've lasted longer then any other dreg I've fought. I applaud that.” the king taunted him, laughing all the while.

Jon rose to his feet, thrusting himself forward as he tried to stab into Euron's stomach once more. The man merely stepped to the side as Jon stumbled into thin air, desperately trying to rotate around to counter his incoming attack, but failing.

The blow connected with Jon's side, sending him tumbling to the ground with a hard thud, wheezing violently from the compounded pain he was in. His foot, stomach and arms were aflame – the agony spreading across his whole body.

“Get up, boy. Or are you done?” Euron snickered, twisting the staff once more as it retracted into itself, becoming a metal rod. “It's alright to quit. I'll let you watch as I begin my ascension. Who knows? You might even be raised up as one of my lieutenants.”

Jon crawled over to the cave wall, leaning up against it as he panted wildly. “I...i'll never quit.” he coughed, trying to rise to his feet. He stared towards his foe, his eyes blurring over from the heat within the cave. Yet he watched as Euron advanced forward, his black armor glowing with every step.

“Never say never, Jon Snow.” he whispered, leaning into Jon's face, his breath smelling of sulfur and beef jerky.

_Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

* * *

Jon spat into Euron's face. The impact of the glob of phlegm made him stagger back, sputtering in surprise. He advanced forward, swinging hard with his hand and landing a solid punch to his cheek, knocking him to the ground.

Before he could respond a jolt of pain flooded into his body as yellow blasts of energy flowed from Euron's gauntlet. The pain forced Jon to his knees as he screamed, the pain making his bones feel as though they were going to shatter.

Euron got to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of blood. His eyes were wide, mouth agape as he stared towards him.

“Well, well, well...” he stated, impressed. “You'd make a fine pirate, boy.”

Jon felt a heavy hand wrap around his throat as Euron throttled him, gritting his teeth angrily at him. “You're not an amusement any longer. Now, you're in my way...” he growled as Jon gasped for air, clawing at the gauntlet in a futile attempt to break free.

His head began to throb as the world spun, his muscles becoming weaker by the second. Jon knew that this was a live or die moment; if he failed then all would be lost. Sansa, their child, House Stark, Ghost, everything. He had to think of something and quick; with the last bit of strength he had his free hand went to the ground, fumbling wildly for something solid to use. Longclaw was too far away but Jon grasped the jagged edge of a lava rock.

Just as he felt the life begin to leave his body he swung the rock towards Euron's head and a moment later, he was free to breathe, gasping for breath.

* * *

The rock connected with Euron's temple with a sickening crunch as the man cried out in pain, collapsing into a heap beside Jon. He appeared to be stunned; his body was shaking wildly as he mumbled to himself.

Jon saw his chance and straddled his waist, grasping him by the hair and slamming his head into the ground once, then twice, then three times. He felt the fury of the wolf coarse through his veins, his blood boiling with rage and heat as he continued to pummel his head into the ground, letting out a bellow of anger all the while, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

The struggles of Euron Greyjoy went from shakes to jerks and finally, stillness. But even with his opponent laying dead at his feet Jon was not sated; He rose, grasping Longclaw from across the room and rushing back to his corpse. He swung the blade down at Euron's head, severing it from his body with a sickening crunch.

He grasped the head and hoisted it up, snarling into the dead man's face before throwing it into the lava pit, watching as it quickly melted with a bubbling hiss.

Jon sank to his knees, panting wildly as the fury began to ebb. His mind was his own again; the only sound he heard being the soft bubbling of the magma waterfall. He looked at the headless corpse and grinned, spitting out another mouthful of blood.

* * *

The armor was surprisingly light, he found as he stripped it from Euron's corpse. Peeling the glowing pieces off was simple; carrying them was not. Yet Jon knew he had something else to deal with before leaving and returning back to Oldtown.

He paused his scavenging and walked over to the satchel laying on the ground near the ledge, opening it up and pulling out what he presumed was the diamond; a small, black speck not even the size of an arrowhead.

Dark thoughts ran through his mind. If he wanted to, truly wanted to he could activate it; use the power for good. Build a free, powerful and independent North – forever safe from any influence by either the Targaryens or ironborn. _Ensure a dynasty that would last a thousand thousand years just as the Starks of old had done._

He shook his head. Such power would not be safe in anyone's hands, not even his own.

He placed the diamond on the floor and swung at it with Longclaw, the gem shattering into pieces as his blade struck true. He shoved the satchel back over his shoulder – it still had a nice amount of beef jerky – and faced Euron's half-naked corpse.

He had an idea.

* * *

Viserion let out a mighty and grateful roar as Jon emerged from the chamber, dragging the headless – and now fully armored – corpse of Euron Greyjoy behind him. He'd placed the armor back on its former owner; given he had no way of carrying every piece back with him, he would let Euron do the work.

“You're free, boy.” he smiled, patting the dragon's head softly as it let out a purring noise. “Now, I need your help to get this guy secure on your back.” he gestured to the corpse.

The dragon lowered itself down enough so that Jon could – with a great deal of effort – sling the corpse over Viserion's neck, strapping it down with some of the chain from its former armor piece; the dragon had pulled it off while the men were fighting, it seemed.

“Now, let's go home. Back to Oldtown.” Jon sighed, climbing onto the beast, sitting just behind Euron's corpse.

Within moments the searing heat and volcanic rock was history as Viserion soared above the open sky once again, clearing the remains of Valyria within minutes of his departure.

* * *

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Oldtown and speaks to Daenerys. She urges him to do something else.

The first thing to greet Jon upon his return to Oldtown was Daenerys, embracing him in a tight but gentle hug. A large crowd had formed around him when Viserion touched down but the vast majority of those present stayed away out of fear or were kept back by the Unsullied who quickly surrounded them. At her side was Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm, Mathis Rowan, Theon and Yara. They all looked at him with varying degrees of approval.

“What you've done will echo through history...” the Queen whispered in his ear as she broke the embrace. “you've saved not only my reign...our people, but the world as we know it.”

Jon smiled sheepishly. _Theon must've told_ , he realized.

Jorah stepped forward next, adjusting the artificial hand he wore as he patted Jon's shoulder. “Well done. I had my doubts about you, but I was wrong. I freely admit that.” he said, smiling softly.

“You'll be happy to know – and see – that we've been able to shut off those weather-control devices.” Daenerys told him, waving to the now silent golden towers. “thankfully our ancestors were quite practical with how some of their technology worked.”

Oldtown was half in ruins; destroyed buildings and dead bodies littered the streets, many of the smaller alleys choked with the smells of the dead. The cleanup was just beginning, Jon was told; it would take many weeks to months to clear out the debris alone.

“And the Ironborn?” he asked, turning to Theon and Yara.

“Those who fought beside our uncle surrendered not long after you left.” Theon nodded. “They realized it was a lost cause, and most of them have pledged themselves to the Iron Island's new queen.”

“I should congratulate you then, Lady Greyjoy.” Jon offered a slight bow to Yara. She merely shrugged at him in response.

“If you want to bow I'm not going to complain.” she snickered, shaking her head. “In all seriousness, good work, Snow. You did a hell of a job helping us to get here.”

The feel of a hand on his shoulder stopped Jon as he turned away. “Jon.” Theon stepped forward, eyes gazing into his own.

“What is it, Theon?” he sighed, frowning.

“Tell...tell Sansa I wish her all the best in the world with her life...and yours. I'm sorry things turned out how they did.” Theon bowed his head; Jon saw a few tears running down his face.

“I'm sorry too.” Jon answered, patting his shoulder softly.

As he walked down from the crowded square Daenerys strolled at his side, a look of appreciation on her face. “What about Euron's armour?” she asked, idly running a hand through her hair.

* * *

“I'm keeping it. Consider it a...spoils of war.” Jon smirked at her.

“Normally I would be very cross about giving up such a valuable prize..” she answered, biting on her lower lip. “but given that you share the blood of Valyria as well as I, there is no need for me to be angry. It is in good hands.”

Jon nodded. Like it or not – no matter how much he considered himself of the North – his blood still held the ancient genes of Valyria. He could not deny this fact; even though he had chosen instead to ignore it.

“Jon, it's alright.” Daenerys patted his arm softly once more. “you've done so much for me that I could never truly repay you. What's more, you are family – the only family I have left in this world. But...I know you were not raised as a Targaryen. I accept that you can't...can't really feel what it is to have our dragon-blood.” she smiled.

“I'm sorry, Daenerys. I really am.” he answered, nodding his head. “I tried. I really did – but I just can't.”

She wrapped her arm around his, walking him gently around the chaos. “Don't apologize. I should tell you, as well – I've a statue back in the courtyard of the Red Keep being built of Eddard Stark. Your...father.”

Jon blinked, turning to stare at her. “Truly?”

“Aye. He sacrificed his honor for the sake of my family, like it or not.” she noted softly. “he lied for two decades to protect my nephew. He did not have to; he could have given Lyanna Stark's child up to be killed by the Usurper. But he didn't.”

Jon felt his eyes growing moist. “I miss him.”

“I know.” she leaned into him for a gentle hug. “he would be proud of all you accomplished. Lord Varys told me as much. Although, we can mourn for the dead another time – I think you should go and celebrate the living.”

A roar rang out as Rhaegal smashed into the pavement in front of the pair, Daenerys grinning towards Jon as he stared in wonder. “Go to your wife in King's Landing. Be with her.” she urged as Jon walked forward, the dragon purring at him happily.

“What about my armor?” Jon asked as he settled in his seat.

Daenerys laughed. “I'll have it sent to you, minus the rotting corpse!”

Jon leaned down and patted Rhaegal softly. “Hello, old friend. Let's go back to King's Landing. To see Sansa!”

* * *

Sansa rushed into the throne room as the silhouette of the dragon danced past the large windows. A small crowd – mostly Dothraki guards and various servants – had gathered on the balcony to watch as Rhaegal circled the Red Keep, its rider urging him towards where they all stood.

As Sansa reached the door to the balcony she saw the rider urging them to move, which they did, many fleeing backwards in terror and not sparing her a second thought. Within moments the dragon had landed on the ledge, letting out a magnificent roar as it flapped its wings and beat its tail several times. She clutched the edge of the open door as she watched the rider jump down from its back.

Jon looked rough; his armor was tattered and covered in soot and gore, and he had streaks of blood along his mouth and cheek, but he was alive. He hobbled a few steps away from the dragon and smiled towards her.

* * *

Sansa was in his arms within seconds, sobbing into his shoulder. The emotions that she felt were overpowering; likely in large part due to her pregnancy. She felt an overwhelming loss of control around him – happiness, joy, extreme sensations of bliss – were the norm in situations like these, but Sansa was once able to keep her neutral composure just as she had been taught.

Jon wrapped his arms around her as she felt tears of his own fall onto her shoulder. After a few tender moments of this embrace she ran a hand along his face. “I knew you'd come back..” she whispered.

“I told you before, I always keep my promises.” he replied, smirking. Sansa giggled and gently placed his hand over her belly, now having grown even more since his absence.

“Our little...little one missed you too.” she smiled, shuddering at his long-absent touch.

Jon wept, his composure breaking as he gently rubbed her stomach. “I'm sorry I...I left. I'll never leave you again, I promise.” he smiled at her through his tears.

“Jon, shhh..” she urged, patting him on the arm. “it's alright...”

“I know.” he stated, wiping his face with his remaining hand. “but I've spent so long away from home, from you and the baby...from all those I love. It's so tiring.”

“Rest your weary bones, my love.” she gently bit down on his lower lip, eliciting a gasp. “you are where you belong now. With those who love you.”

* * *

 

 

 


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects several months after he and Sansa return to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE ARE AT THE END! I want to thank ALL of you for your kind words, constructive critiques, and every little word of encouragement you have given me while I slog through this utterly massive work. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, and while there was some rough patches I would like to think it is an okay story. <3

Jon stared out from the window of his chamber, watching as the last of the snows melted. With the destruction of the Others at his hand, winter was now coming to an end. Within the next few weeks the last of the slush and ice would be gone and the people would be free to return to their farms and homes to begin planting anew.

It had been several months since he and Sansa's return to Winterfell; Daenerys had graciously allowed Rhaegal to ferry them back home before he returned to his mother's side. She had also given Jon and Sansa a copy of the formal agreement between the Kingdom of the North and the Iron Throne; the North would be its own free nation once again as a formal ally of the south, sworn to aid them if the Queen asked of it.

He shifted the crown on his head slightly. Even now it felt uncomfortable; he felt as though it was something he was not worthy of. He was not worthy of his Queen, either; Sansa lay in their bed, her stomach having swollen considerably since their return. It would not be long until she gave birth, Maester Wolkan had informed them. Another two months at most.

The news for the rest of Sansa's family – and his own – was far better; Daenerys had flown to the Twins and ousted the Freys, attaining them and driving them into exile across the Narrow Sea. Riverrun was restored to Tully control by her decree and thus, Edmure and his family had left Winterfell several weeks ago.

Jon had also sent a message to Arya by way of Gendry; she was overjoyed to hear of his survival. From what she told him the new lord Baratheon had made plans to visit Winterfell in the coming weeks.

Bran and Meera had wed in the godswood at Winterfell, with Jon – much to his surprise – acting as the one who bound them before the old gods. He had spoken more with Howland Reed – thanking the man for carrying out his father's wishes.

Jaime Lannister had been pardoned by the Iron Throne after much debate by Daenerys; she had wrote to him in announcement of the decision. Despite all of his flaws a kingslayer the man had seemingly been redeemed, she'd said.

Davos and Marya Seaworth had remained at Winterfell for the time being; both of them happy in their new roles – Davos as Jon's Hand and Marya acting as one of the many kitchen staff, due to her enjoyment of baking.

Tormund had departed for the new Free Folk settlement in the north at the New Gift; they were calling it Snow's Edge, much to Jon's amusement. “Figured it was a good name.” he had told him before leaving.

Sam and Gilly had married too, in the godswood at King's Landing. For the time being he was remaining at the Red Keep to serve as a medical advisor to the Queen and her court. A sort of unofficial Grand Maester, until the Citadel was finished rebuilding.

Jon and Sansa had even received a letter from the Iron Islands; Yara had been embraced as Queen by the majority of the ironborn, with the few loyalist Euron houses being brought to heel after a few weeks of battle. She had named Theon as her Hand and he was helping to lead the reforms that would take the ironborn from pirates to traders, fishermen and warriors.

A cryptic letter had arrived bearing the symbol of the Lord of Light; it was from Melisandre, of all people. She had said nothing about her whereabouts, but instead spoke of how she felt Jon's defeat of the Others and, in her mind confirmed that he was Azor Ahai.

The North was now rebuilding and preparing for the spring to return. Jon smiled, feeling as though the weight was lifting off his shoulders.

* * *

 

“Good morning,” came Sansa's voice from their bed as she rose, as radiant and beautiful as ever. “have you been up long?”

Jon turned around, smiling at her. “No. Just...thinking.” he said, shrugging as he went to her side, planting a gentle kiss on her lips.

“About?” she asked, running a hand through his hair.

“Everything.” he responded, drinking in the sight of his wife – even in a simple silk nightdress she was utterly flawless. She held scars from her time with Ramsay Bolton, of course; but Jon did not see those.

_She is an angel, worthy of everything I can give her._

“Am I part of your everything?” she teased, ruffling her hair softly.

Gingerly Jon pulled her onto his lap as she squeaked with surprise, his hands settling on her belly. “Both of you are.” he whispered, kissing her on the neck as she shivered.

Out in the courtyard of Winterfell the morning sun rose on the two statues that had been erected in the months following the King's return.

It was Jon's wish that Eddard and Catelyn Stark forever watch over their children, grandchildren and descendants in the times to come. Good or bad, his father and step-mother would be there to inspire the future generations who called this castle home.

* * *

 

 


End file.
